


how many heartbreaks?

by exarite



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cultural Differences, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Follows FBAWTFT Canon Events, Gellert Grindelwald Being an Asshole, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-05 12:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17325206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exarite/pseuds/exarite
Summary: Age, distance, and their own inherent stubbornness have kept them apart for far too long, but when Newt Scamander decides to come to New York, he finally meets his soulmate—the man whose name matches the one on his wrist.Except, well. It takes very little for Newt to decide that he wants nothing to do with Percival Graves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hm. I'm putting them at a 13 year age difference, with Newt at 29 and Graves at 43 during the events of FBAWTFT. And u know what the craziest thing is??? In my research, apparently theseus is 8 years older??? I had him pegged for like 4 years older at the latest ugh. Anyway I love theseus a lot so this is a theseus + gramander fic. Jk. (Am i?)
> 
> Title taken from You Can’t Hurry Love by Phil Collins
> 
> anyway pls note that for the first half of the fic, grindelwald is very much impersonating graves so. further chapter warnings will be made just in case

“Afternoon, Mr. Graves, sir!”

“Afternoon, Abernathy.”

It takes a moment for Newt, and granted he's a little preoccupied because he’s just been taken into MACUSA for Section 3A or other, whatever that is but—

Newt turns, his attention snapping toward to the suddenly, achingly familiar man coming up from behind him.

"Sorry," Newt interrupts, his gaze darting back and forth between the two men. "Did you say—I mean, are you Percival Graves?"

Goldstein gives him an annoyed, helpless look, and Newt’s shoulders hunch. His eyes dart towards the man to take him in, and now that he's actually really looking he can recognize him now. He’s much more imposing in real life, almost devastatingly handsome, really. The years-old newspaper article that Theseus had sent him long ago seems to burn in his chest pocket, and Newt can feel his face heat up. He should have recognized him earlier when Goldstein had brought him before the Investigative Team. 

"Yes, Mr. Graves, and this is—"

"Newton Scamander," Newt interrupts once more, unable to hold it in. His eyes flick upwards in an effort to actually meet his soulmate's gaze, and so he sees _it_ perfectly. There's a moment of blankness, an incomprehension that doesn't fit with what Newt has observed in all his years during a first meeting of soulmates. He doesn’t recognize Newt’s name. It's only a moment, but it's enough to send Newt reeling with doubt, his gut dropping.

Then surprised recognition comes over those stern features, delayed as it is, and the look on Percival Graves' face is more familiar now. Newt has seen it dozens of times, especially during his first year when his year mates would introduce or be introduced to their soulmates. He feels himself relax and a shy, strained smile blooms on his face as he ducks his head. He holds out his hand, his marked wrist upwards, the traditional presenting he learned as a child.

"Oh!" Goldstein gasps, pressing a hand to her mouth. Abernathy's jaw drops in blatant shock. Newt twitches, but keeps his attention on his soulmate, holding his breath. Newt wasn't quite sure how magical Americans did it, wasn’t sure what the proper way to present oneself to one’s soulmate was here, but—

Graves takes his hand exactly the way Newt was taught, his broad hand covering the worn leather band around Newt's wrist. Newt’s own palm tingles where it meets Graves’ own wristband, the silver of it sleek and elegant, and he can’t help but smile, his heart fluttering.

When Graves smiles back, it’s cold and sharp.

Oh.

Newt’s smile freezes on his face.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Scamander,” Graves says, and his eyes are just as cold as his smile.

“Yes,” Newt says dimly. "Call me Newt." He looks away and takes his hand back as quickly as he can without it seeming rude, a chill making its way down his spine. Graves doesn’t even look fazed, only turns to Goldstein with a raised eyebrow.

“And Tina, what are you doing with Mr. Scamander here?”

Newt winces. Goldstein, to her credit, gives him a sideways glance and grants him a semi-apologetic look before she steps forward towards Graves and then barely hesitates to inform him about how Newt has, quote-unquote, a ‘crazy creature in his case that caused mayhem in a bank.’

Newt doesn’t blame her. Just because Newt’s soulmate is the Director of Magical Security, that doesn't mean that Newt gets off scot-free off a magical creature violation during when, he later learns, New York is in the midst of a magical creature situation themselves.

Newt fiddles with the ends of his sleeves and barely manages not to flinch underneath Graves’ bemused look. He feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment and he sighs to himself. Not a very good first impression on one's soulmate, he supposed.

“Let’s see the little guy,” Graves orders.

Newt stammers out a protest, but then Goldstein grabs his case and lays it out. His shoulders slump with resignment, and he can only watch as Goldstein opens up his case and reveals—

Pastries.

Newt stares. He finds that he can't find it in himself to really care about what Percival Graves thinks anymore, and his wariness at that sharp, cold smile and those dead eyes pushes itself to the side. He has bigger things to worry about.

(And so, after years and years of beating around the bush, or around the world in Newt's case, thus ends the very first meeting between Newt and his soulmate.

It's fairly anti-climatic, really. After four years of avoiding the New York area like a plague in fear of obligation to stay, Graves lets him leave with only Newt's flimsy promise to come back, looking all too eager to postpone an actual conversation between the two of them.

Newt tries not to feel hurt at that.)

 

*

 

"So, what's he like?" Newt eventually asks Tina. His brother had been steadily communicating with Newt's soulmate for almost a year now, but almost always in the capacity of Director Graves and Head Auror Scamander. Their very first correspondence, in fact, Theseus had forwarded to Newt, along with a request of Newt's permission for Theseus to at least give Graves a little hint.

Of course, Newt had refused. Theseus had already practically begged him to go to New York years prior when Graves had first been announced as the new Director of Magical Security. Newt had hesitated and dawdled even then. He wasn't ready, he told Theseus, he had creatures to save and things to do.

"Mr. Graves?" Tina says, and Newt ducks his head as he nods. He fiddles with his wand, shifting slightly in discomfort as Tina um-ed, and ah-ed.

"Well, he's very powerful," Tina starts off, pursing her lips. "Very, ah, stern. To be honest, most of us assumed he didn't have a soulmate."

"Oh," Newt murmurs.

"He's rather… old, you see, and he's never mentioned it before."

"Oh yes, my parents have always assumed he'd be at least ten years older, some of their friends were quite worried," Newt agrees amiably. "But he must be in his late 30's? Or Early 40's, maybe—I’m not saying he looks old, he’s quite fit but—"

"43." Tina sounds amused and she pauses, blinking to herself before she seems to reorient herself, nodding slightly. "Of course, you would have been born already marked. That makes sense. I wonder why he hadn't written to you then, he would have been of age already by the time he got your mark."

Newt wilts at that and he can't help but frown, old hurts coming back in the way they do. "So it's true then? You Americans write to your intended? I've always, ah, found that very odd.” Along with their backwards laws about Muggles, but Newt will hold off on spouting that particular opinion until he has to. Tina already doesn’t seem as if she likes him, and Newt isn’t particularly keen on irritating her even more.

"Those raised in our world, at least. I can’t imagine being a Nomaj. It must be hard for them without Owls."

Newt bobs his head in agreement and scratches the side of his neck. "We British folk prefer a more natural meeting. A struggle before meeting makes for a more powerful bond, they say. I can't imagine just simply writing to your soulmate, it feels like cheating, don’t you think?"

“Well,” Tina says dismissively, “maybe that’s why it took so long for you two to meet then.”

Newt stops at that and then stares at her.

“Oh,” Tina says, stumbling slightly. She reddens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

Newt’s jaw tightens and he ducks his head. He exhales, long and slow, before he looks up and smiles thinly at her. “No, it’s fine.”

He continues walking again, and this time it’s Tina who’s struggling to keep up with him, apologetic expression still fixed on her face. Newt sighs and glances at her guiltily before he looks away.

“I guess you’re right,” he says quietly. “I _am_ the one who kept him waiting.”

 

*

 

The majority of children are born without a soulmark. Newt Scamander is an exception.

“Oh,” one of the midwives murmur in surprise, a smile blooming on her lips as she spots the dark ink on the baby’s wrist. She cleans off the blood hiding it from view, her smile widening as the full mark is revealed.

Percival Graves, it reads.

The midwives croon to themselves in joy as they pass the baby to his mother’s chest, in love as most are with the idea that the baby’s soulmate is already waiting for him, already old enough to be writing.

Newt Scamander was born already belonging to someone, already loved, and for some, maybe that would be a comfort. For others, as they grew up, maybe they'd find it stifling.

For Newt, it would simply be another oddity in his already odd life.

The penmanship that spelled out his soulmate's name at the time of his birth was one of an adolescent, no longer the wavering script of a child. Not the clean, elegant script that Newt eventually lives with when he's older either, but it's well on its way.

"At least ten years older,” his parents’ closest friends speculate once they see it, some frowning a bit. Ten years would be turn out to be a generous estimate because as Newt eventually learns, Percival Graves is thirteen years older than him.

“One of the Original Twelve of MACUSA,” his pureblood grandparents murmur in approval.

“When can I play with him?” Theseus petulantly asks, eight years old and uncaring of silly little things like soulmarks.

As for his parents, all they were really concerned about was the mere fact that their son had a soulmate. That was all that mattered, they said to each other. Everything else would fall into place.

(Eventually.)

 

*

 

"Come on, Newt," Leta prods, nudging his side. If she was anyone but Leta, Newt would call the look on her face a pout. However, pouting is above Leta Lestrange, or so she says, so Newt just smiles.

"I'll show you mine. It's only fair, isn't it?" Leta adds mischievously. Newt tugs at his wristband self-consciously and ducks his head.

"I don't know, Leta," he replies plaintively. He looks up at her through his fringe and softens. He hesitates, just a bit before he sighs and holds out his marked wrist. His wristband is brown and unassuming, clean leather instead of the more flashy jewelry that most purebloods wear. Newt finds that most animals prefer it though and it’s easy enough to make a switch to. His whole family prefers the brown themself, especially with the hippogriffs on their property.

Leta perks up and presses in closer towards him, her scent filling his nose, and Newt's face heats up. Flustered, he quickly taps his wand on his wristband and watches as it crawls back to reveal his mark.

"Huh," Leta says in surprise, tilting her head. She reads it out, slow and deliberate enough to make Newt embarrassed even if he doesn't know why. "Percival Graves."

"Yeah," Newt mutters. With a flick of his wand, his wrist is covered once more and Newt quickly tucks it back to his side.

With a careless air, Leta unlocks her own wristband, hers a more traditional, beautiful silver and shoves it under his nose.

Oh. Newt blinks.

"Well, now you've seen it," Leta says briskly, casually. She covers her bare, unmarked wrist once more and smiles at him tightly.

Newt licks his dry lips, and then hesitantly, he offers, "Theseus doesn't have one either." It isn't his place to be spreading his brother's status, but he's sure Theseus wouldn't really mind. He's already working for the Aurors and Newt knows Theseus hasn't even bothered to check his wrist in years. "And we're only 14."

"I hope I never get one," Leta declares as she tosses her hair back. She avoids Newt's eyes. "I have no need for soulmarks, and I have no desire to be bound to one person for the rest of my life."

"I think it's nice," Newt quietly replies, hunching into himself. "Mother said I was born already loved."

"Oh, don't be silly Newt," Leta sighs. "You should know by now that's not true."

Newt's gut twisted. One of his father's friends had mentioned long ago that American purebloods had a silly little tradition of writing letters addressed to the names on their wrists. He had insulted it then. How lazy these Americans must be, he said, to have an Owl do the finding for them.

Newt's father had glanced at him. He said nothing even as they both wondered why Percival Graves had not written.

 

*

 

"Theseus?" Newt calls out quietly. His brother is standing by the window, the moonlight illuminating his pale skin, his ginger hair bleached in it. Theseus jumps, already spelling his wristband shut once more. Newt gets a glimpse of still blank skin and he draws back, hesitating. Theseus pays his hesitance no mind though and simply smiles at him, motioning him in.

Newt pads into his brother's room and stands beside him, shoulder to shoulder even if Newt isn't quite as tall as Theseus. He touches his own wristband self-consciously, his head tilted up in watchful wariness of his brother.

He doesn’t quite know what to say or what to do, and so he stays silent as Theseus gazes out the window, his hand gentle on his own unmarked wrist. He has no words of comfort for his older brother because, while Newt had grown up with his wrist already marked, Theseus did not. It wasn't uncommon. Both boys wore a wristband around their wrists for propriety's sake, but as they continued to grow up, it became increasingly obvious that it was only Theseus who regularly checked his wrist for any change.

Most children get their marks from five to ten years old as their peers learned to write their names and begin to associate that particular combination of letters as something that defined them. There are children, of course, as young as 3 or 4 that could copy the letters of their name, but until they learned that these letters were the same as the sounds that made up their name, until they identified these letters as _them_ , it meant nothing.

Newt used to think nothing of it at the time. He was such a child then. He had only watched with an idle sort of curiosity as Theseus did his ritual of checking—nightly before, but the older he got, the less he had bothered. His melancholy tonight, and seeing him check struck Newt as odd. Theseus was already twenty-five, and Newt knew that the last time his brother checked was… He frowned to himself. It must have been Newt's second year at Hogwarts then, five years ago when his brother was twenty.

"Your soulmate must have waited quite a bit for you, huh?" Theseus breaks the peaceful silence between them. He tilts his head towards Newt and gives him a sad sort of smile. There was an odd vulnerability to him, one that Newt hadn't seen in so long. His brother had always figured himself as a guardian, as a protector to his much younger brother, and he couldn't be that and act weak around Newt.

Newt blinks and he looks away, his eyes catching on the hippogriffs Theseus must have been staring at during his silence. He couldn't deny that he had thought about it, about how long his soulmate must have waited, how he surely must have given up a bit before a five-year-old Newt had finally learned how to write his own name.  His soulmate must have been at least fifteen years old then, only a little younger than Newt now.

"He's still waiting," Newt chooses to say, and Theseus snorts at that.

In truth, Newt's early soul mark was reason enough for Theseus to accept the possibility of a much younger soulmate. Even as his year mates met their matches, even as late bloomers finally received their marks, Theseus had still held on with grim hope, had held on longer than anyone else would normally have.

The majority of the population gain their marks by fifteen, but as Theseus' 15th birthday went by and left his wrist still unmarked, Theseus barely faltered.  Their parents had already long accepted it, even before Theseus himself.

Theseus turns to him again, his gaze strangely intent. "You must know about the War going on."

Newt shifts at that before he nods. "Yes… The Muggles. Mother is quite worried."

"It isn't right." Theseus shakes his head, his jaw tight. "It isn't fair that Minister Evermonde is forbidding us from taking part while all those people suffer."

There's something decisive in his eyes that makes Newt's eyes widen, and his mouth falls open.

" _Theseus_ ," he whispers, practically begs, "You can't possibly be thinking of joining the war effort."

Theseus' lips thin and it's answer enough. Newt reels back, his features paling, his head shaking in denial. His fingers dig themselves into each other, leaving half-moon impressions on his skin.

At this point, maybe others would call his brother a Gryffindor.

They’d be wrong. Theseus Scamander was a Hufflepuff through and through and he was joining the war because it was right, because it was _fair_ , not because of visions of valor and victory.

"There's all these people with marks on their wrist, a few who still haven't met their soulmates, and here I am, unmarked. They have so much ahead of them,” Theseus tells him quietly. He reaches out and wraps his hands around Newt’s wrists, his palm warm against Newt’s band, and Newt’s features twist in pain. Theseus gives him a small, gentle smile. “I have nothing to lose.”

Theseus gives him a long, drawn-out hug and for once, Newt actually hugs him back, tight and desperate. By the time the sun rose the next morning, he was already gone.

And Newt, a few months later at seventeen and so _so_ afraid, had promptly caught up and joined the war effort. If only so he could stand before his brother, even as Theseus had paled at the sight of him, and say, "No. You have plenty to lose."

 

*

 

"Newt," Theseus writes to him one day. "I'm not quite sure where you are now, but when you're done with whatever it is you're doing… You should visit New York."

Newt blinks. He turns his attention to the newspaper page that Theseus had included in his letter and immediately, his breath catches. 

PERCIVAL GRAVES NEW DIRECTOR OF MAGICAL SECURITY 

His grip tightens on the lone page of the New York Ghost, his eyes darting over the article and the picture that takes up most of the space. The man that must be Percival Graves is handsome, a sternness in his features that immediately catches Newt's eye. Newt already knew that his soulmate was older but he can’t help but be surprised anyway. 

Graves doesn't smile in the photo, only steadily meets Newt's eyes before he looks away to shake the President's hands. Newt slumps in his seat and he releases a low breath, eyes still wide as he goes over his soulmate's features, his confident posture.

Shakily, he reaches up behind his ear where his wand is tucked and he taps it on his wristband. It releases silently, crawling back to reveal his bare skin. Percival Graves, his wrist still says, just as it's done for the past 25 years. Newt swallows. His eyes trace over the elegant script, taking in the dips and peaks of the clean penmanship. It matches the man in the photo perfectly, fitting the put together and neat quality that Newt had imagined before. In contrast, his own messy script must look truly out of place on his soulmate's wrist. 

He had wondered for years what kind of man Percival Graves was to be a supposedly perfect match for him. Seeing a picture of him now, Newt can't help but squirm slightly. An Auror, just like his brother. Stern. Strict. Ambitious, career-focused, and goal-oriented.

Where would Newt fit in? 

He turns around to take in the inside of his case and he can't help but see the mess and the abundance of creatures in a new light now. He tries to imagine the stern man in the photo standing beside him, or standing in the midst of his (sometimes illegal) creatures, or with him during his (sometimes illegal) adventures and he finds that he can't. 

He tries to imagine himself in the Ministry or in MACUSA, working a desk job or consulting on creatures like how Theseus had suggested. Just the thought of being restricted to one place for too long already makes him squeamish, and he knows that he can't either, not for long, not again. The year he had spend in House-Elf Relocation had been bad enough, thanks.

Newt puts down Theseus' letter and takes one last, long glance at the newspaper article. He looks up, his eyes catching on the injured graphorn he had just taken in days ago, who surely would have died if Newt hadn't rescued him from poachers, and he nods decisively to himself.

Surely his soulmate could wait a little while longer. 

It is with little regret that he folds up his soulmate's photo, and tucks it in to his pocket.

"The work is never done," he writes back to his brother. "New York can wait a little while, can't it?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt and "graves" have a talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i rewatched Fantastic Beasts, and the movie just covers a span of like, two days?? crazy.

"That's Mr. Scamander. He's committed a serious infraction of the National Statute of Secrecy."

"He's a criminal?"

"Uh-huh."

'Criminal' was a strong word. Newt wouldn't necessarily call himself law-abiding, and well, he _did_ just perform a lot of Magic in front of Muggles, and he sometimes did things while retrieving and saving creatures that weren't legal, per se, but he wouldn't go so far as to label himself a _criminal_.

Newt wanders around the room curiously as Queenie and Tina talk about Jacob and Newt's situation, only really listening with one ear. It takes him only a minute to notice that Queenie is having a one-sided conversation, Jacob silent as he stares up at her while she talks at him.

"You're a Legilimens?" He interrupts. Queenie meets his eyes and Newt's gaze slides away even as he does his best to clear his mind. He isn't particularly talented with Occlumency, his mind is much too messy, but all the same, he'd prefer his thoughts to himself.

"Uh-huh, yeah. But I always have trouble with your kind. Brits. It's the accent."

She has trouble, but it's still possible for her and that's enough for Newt to be wary. She's sweet, but Newt has seen enough of cute little creatures with danger in them to be tricked.

"Well, I do really have to go now," Newt says. He must not muster up the proper tone for apologetic, based on how Tina gives him a disbelieving look. He smiles at her tightly. "Mr. Graves is expecting me, remember?" 

"Oh, right," Tina sighs. Graves had asked Newt to come back for at least a quick chat, but couldn't promise if he'd be busy tonight. MACUSA had a lot to handle right now apparently, but even the Director deserved a quick coffee break, he had charmingly said. "But you're leaving your case!"

Honestly, Newt planned to have that quick coffee break, get out after the obligated chat, and then look for his creatures, but Tina didn't need to know that. But, he realizes, it might not be a good idea to bring his case to the Directory himself, especially after the close call earlier. He deliberates to himself and then reluctantly puts down the case. 

"Please just make sure the locks stay closed, one of them is broken but I'll only really be a while."

Tina frowns at that but nods.

"Teenie?" Queenie asks, and Tina looks up.

"Oh!" Queenie gasps. She turns to face him then and smiles, bright and sincere, "Congratulations, Mr. Scamander. You must be so happy to meet your soulmate."

"It's alright," Newt replies and gives a quick, awkward smile. He doesn't really feel much of anything, really. All he can think about is his creatures, vulnerable in the unfamiliar city, surrounded by humans. Niff is still missing, that he knows for sure. And with how the case was opened when Newt found it, he can't tell who else is missing unless he goes inside and checks. If he had it his way he'd postpone his chat with Mr. Graves, but Newt can't help but feel guilty. He's already made him wait long enough, hasn't he?

"Soulmate?" Jacob asks, and Queenie turns towards him.

"Oh yes, I've forgotten that you Nomaj don’t have such things." Queenie begins to sweetly explain to Jacob about soulmates, and seeing his chance, Newt opens the door and slips out.

 

*

 

The day is winding down in MACUSA, its employees already packing up and ready to go home.

Newt's soulmate, on the other hand, is waiting in his office when Newt finally finds it after numerous directions from well-meaning workers.

"Newt," Graves greets. His smile is stiff as if he's not used to moving his face in such a way and Newt gives his own awkward smile back. 

"Mr. Graves." 

Graves doesn't offer for Newt to call him Percival, only motions for Newt to join him in the seat directly in front of him on the other side of his imposing desk. Newt takes it, fiddling with his coat. Did Graves expect Newt to stay so formal with him, never address him by his first name?

Graves waves a hand almost lazily, barely exerting any effort, and then all Newt can do is watch, his mouth falling open as cups and saucers immediately fly into place, one right in front of Graves and the other in front him. A teapot sets itself gently in the middle of Graves' desk, completing the picture.

He tries not to gape, but Newt is honestly amazed at the easy display of wandless magic. He had figured his soulmate was powerful, what with being the Director of Magical Security, but the ease with which he did it was _astounding_. He must be incredibly talented, or at least have incredible control. 

"Scamander? Any relation to Theseus Scamander?" Graves asks as the teapot pours a drink for both of them. It's tea, which surprises Newt. He had assumed that it would be coffee, what with Americans and their odd preferences and with how Graves had invited him under the guise of coffee.

"My brother," Newt answers. He waits for Graves to mention his exchange of letters with Theseus, but Graves only nods.

"What is it you do then?" Graves asks. 

“Oh.” Newt smiles, tight and tense, and looks down into his steaming cup. “I work with magical creatures, I’m writing a book about them.”

“And you worked with the Dragon Division during the War?”

Newt’s eyebrows furrow and he peeks at Graves through his eyelashes as he takes a sip. It's a surprisingly good cup of tea. Director Graves must have researched or asked around about him after their meeting earlier, and Newt isn't surprised. Their conversation is starting to feel a lot like an interrogation, but Newt supposes that Graves can't help it. It is his job, after all, he must have to interview criminals a lot.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Ukranian Ironbellies, in the Eastern Front. But that was disbanded after a year because I was uh, I was the only one the dragons actually liked.”

Graves brings his cup down and leans in, his eyes intense, a dark sort of interest in his eyes. “They followed your commands?”

Newt squirms slightly and looks away, a heavy weight in his throat making it hard for him to speak. The look in Graves’ eyes is familiar. Newt sees it often enough in smugglers or poachers, even in some Ministry workers, that it's easy enough to identify. It was simple _greed_. And those sort of people… they always wanted something from creatures, dead or alive. 

“I … suppose,” he says hesitantly, quietly. “They obeyed only because they want to, because they trusted me. I treated them well and with respect.”

Graves leans away and eyes him. His heavy gaze makes Newt uncomfortable. He wants nothing more than to head out already and look for his creatures instead of spending more time with this man, soulmate or not.

“And most creatures like you, would you say?”

Newt shifts. “It’s just a matter of knowing how to deal with them, most magical creatures are intelligent, not really dangerous if you treat them right--but I suppose one can say that.”

Graves tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. He seems to make a decision with himself because a charming smile spreads across his face.

 _Danger_ , Newt’s instincts scream.

“There’s been reports of a magical creature causing havoc in New York. I think we could use your… ability to deal with them.” Graves is watching his face, waiting.

Newt’s fists tighten and he forces a tense smile, more of a grimace. He bites down on the inner skin of his bottom lip, grounding himself before he lets himself answer.

“You won’t—you won’t exterminate them or anything, right?”

“Of course not,” Graves quickly replies, voice smooth as silk. His eyes are cold. “That would be a waste, don’t you think?”

He leans in and places a firm hand over Newt’s, his fingers brushing Newt’s wristband.  Disgust crawls over him, his toes curling, and Newt stares at the collar of Graves’ coat. He swallows. 

"What kind of creature is it?"

Graves smiles at him. He reaches into his coat with his other hand and pulls out a file of pictures. Newt's fingers twitch underneath Graves', and he can't help but relax when Graves pulls away to open it.

"I have a suspicion on what it is," Graves confides solemnly as he passes the pictures.

Newt browses through them, surprised at the mix of Muggle and Magical photos. It's all of the same scene, the same destruction...

"The Nomaj witnesses described it as a big, dark mass with glowing eyes. The glimpse I caught of it—the power was just overwhelming, the amount of magic..." The greedy glint in Graves' eyes is back, his words thick with it, and Newt swallows down the nausea, his eyes flicking away.

"An Obscurus?" He asks, voice hushed in Graves' office. Graves gives him a thin-lipped smile and nods. Newt drops his attention back on the pictures and releases a low breath.

"A child, no more than ten possibly," he murmurs to himself. He has to help them, whoever it is.

"Yes, I have my suspicions. Have you encountered the Second Salemers, yet?"

"The woman with the anti-Wizard views," Newt surmises and Graves nods.

"Don't worry about finding them," Graves says smoothly. "I'm just curious about how one would control them, once the child is acquired."

"I encountered one before, in Sudan," Newt admits. He doesn't quite like his soulmate so far, but he _is_ the Director of Magical Security and there _is_ a child that Newt can help. Find the child first, he decides, and then deal with Graves and his greedy eyes later. He takes a sip of the tea, organizing his thoughts. "I…I tried to save her, and I managed to separate the Obscurius from her."

"And?" Graves prods, his pupils blown wide.

Newt closes his eyes, and his chest aches at the flash of memory, of the little girl in Sudan who had cried and screamed, Newt so helpless then and unable to help her. "She died, I wasn't able to—"

"No, the Obscurus," Graves interrupts impatiently. "What happened to the Obscurus after you separated it?"

"It—It can't survive without the host, it's harmless after you separate it."

"So it's useless without the host," Graves mutters, leaning away.

"Uselesss." Newt stares, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly in shock at the man who was supposed to be his soulmate.

"Useless?" He repeats dumbly, unable to believe the words, the audacity of this man. "That is a parasitical magical force that killed a child. What on earth would you use it for?"

Graves seems to catch himself at that and his expression smooths over, a placid smile appearing on his face as his tone turns appeasing. "Don't be like that, Newt. I'm a pragmatic man, I'm just thinking of all the—"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Graves," Newt says stiffly. "It was very nice talking to you, but I do think I have to go now." He stands up, putting down his tea with a clatter on the delicate saucer.

"Newt—Mr. Scamander." Graves stands, voice soothing. "Please."

Newt grits his jaw and he meets Graves' eyes even as his hands tremble at his sides.

"I'll help you with the Obscurus," he says. "But I'm doing it for the child, not for you."

"Mr. Scamander," Graves calls out after he's turned his back on him and already taken a few steps to get away. Newt stiffens. He turns, wary.

Graves gazes at him impassively. "May I have your word that this conversation will be kept private? I don't want the others to worry. They'll want to eliminate the child. It wouldn't do for America to have an Obscurial, you understand."

Newt's lips thin but he nods. He understands what people do to things they don't understand far too well. "You have my word. I won't, Mr. Graves, I promise."

 

*

 

"Oh, you're back early," Tina says in surprise, straightening up from her seat. Newt blinks at the three of them sitting down at the dining table, a half-eaten strudel in front of them.

"Yes," he says tightly. "I did say I would be back quickly."

He sits down at the free seat across Tina and avoids all their eyes. Queenie gives him a soft, concerned look but Newt doesn't look up, only cuts a piece for himself.

The conversation restarts as he starts to eat. Tina mostly stays quiet, only watches as her sister and Jacob talk. Or, as Queenie talks and then mostly just reads Jacob's mind. Newt feels a little awkward, a little off balance from his earlier, horrible conversation with Graves.

He watches them. Was this how people without soulmates talked when they liked each other? All of them able to make connections, every single person a possibility, the freedom of being able to choose, to be able to be with who you wanted without feeling guilty because of some name on your wrist. Newt had considered once, being with Leta. He thought himself in love with her.

If he never had a soulmate, would Newt have had enough courage then to pursue something with her, before everything went wrong in his sixth year? Would he have been able to flirt with her like how—

"I am not flirting."

He blinks in surprise, but Queenie is looking at Tina and not him. Despite that, he and Tina share a look before Tina warns her sister of being too attached. Understandable, what with their laws against interacting with Muggles.

"And Mr. Scamander, I'm really sorry about your meeting with Mr. Graves."

Newt stiffens and he looks down at his plate, his grip tightening on his utensils. "Please don't read my mind," he says. 

"I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to read your mind, but you're having an awful lot of negative feelings and projecting very loudly," Queenie says apologetically. 

"What?" Tina interrupts, her brows furrowed. "Mr. Graves is great. He can be very intimidating, very rough, but don't worry, he's a good man, great Director."

"Teenie, I don't know why you still admire him so much even after he demoted you. You didn't deserve that."

Tina gives a thin smile. "And I told you, he was my mentor when I was a Junior Auror, and he's helped me a lot. It's only recently that he's been like that. He's very stressed, you see?"

"Oh Teenie, that's not what stress does."

It sounds like an age-old tested conversation, the kind between well-meaning siblings. It's familiar enough to Newt, what with Theseus always thinking he knew better, and he can't help but smile.

Tina looks towards him then and Newt blinks, his smile fading. He glances at Queenie, and then back at Tina. Was she expecting him to back her up on Mr. Graves actually being a good man?

Newt's eyes dart towards Tina before he admits, embarrassed, "I don't like him very much so far, actually."

Tina blusters at that, but she abruptly deflates and sighs. "That's all right, I can see why. You're very…" she trails off, and waves a hand in his general direction. "I don't know, you're very different from each other."

"I barely know him," Newt relents quietly, drawing into himself, and shrugs. "And if I'm being honest, I don't really care to."

"What?" Jacob asks, finally speaking up. "But you're soulmates!"

"Well," Newt says dully, "I would rather not be."

The three of them stare at him, stunned, and Newt almost shrinks into himself before he shakes it off. He puts down his utensils, his already low appetite fading into nothing. He stands. 

"I don't—I don't _want_ to be his soulmate, I don't care if my name's on his wrist or that his is on mine," Newt tells them, breathing heavily. He looks down. Pickett chirps in his pocket, a comforting sound and Newt exhales, long and slow. He lets himself be soothed, his eyes closing just for a bit as he breathes.

"But," Jacob stammers as he looks towards Queenie helplessly. "Queenie said that soulmates are a gift from Magic itself to you."

"Oh, is that what Americans think?" Newt asks in interest, glancing towards Queenie and Tina who are both still staring at him with wide eyes. "That's fascinating, in Britain we've always—"

"You should give him a chance," Tina interrupts him earnestly. "You're meant for each other. He means well."

Newt frowns at that. Their conversation from earlier is very clear in his mind, and Newt doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget. He remembers Graves' uncaring cruelty about the uselessness of a separated Obscurial and his gut churns, just as disgusted as he was earlier. How could a man who thought like that possibly be Newt's soulmate?

It doesn't matter, he personally decides even as he nods and smiles thinly at them to appease them. It doesn't matter if Graves is his soulmate. Newt wants nothing to do with him.


	3. Chapter 3

"Newt, I don't think I'm dreaming," Jacob says, his eyes wide as he looks around, at the graphorns, at Frank, at each of Newt's enclosures one by one. 

Newt ducks his head and smiles. "What gave it away?"

"I ain't got the brains to make this up."

Newt feels himself relax at that. The kind of open appreciation from Jacob isn't one that he sees often. An appreciation without the greed of what one could do with creatures is even rarer, and Newt already can't help but feel attached to Jacob himself.

Maybe Tina should have warned him instead of Queenie.

"So, not everyone in your world has soulmarks, right?" Jacob hesitantly brings up and Newt shakes his head.

"Ah, no. I would say 30 percent of the wizarding world doesn't. Muggleborns—or, well, I'm not sure what they call them here, but those with Nomaj parents usually don't have soulmarks, or if they do, it only develops once they're in school. It’s a fairly interesting mode of protection, actually and puts a lot of weight on intelligent sentient magic—“

Newt stops mid-ramble and grimaces apologetically, but Jacob only shakes his head in quiet amazement. 

"You think… You think Queenie has a soulmate?" Jacob asks wistfully and Newt shrugs.

"It's rude to ask."

His eyes catch on the Mooncalf habitat and he smiles.

"Actually, would you mind throwing some of those pellets in with the Mooncalves over there?"

 

*

 

It takes a fair bit of work to sneak back into the Goldstein's apartment. Newt is sure that the two of them must suspect that they left, but Newt did what he had to do, and Ella and Nick are both safe back in his case. That's all that matters.

“This is one of the girl’s!” Jacob says in surprise as he pulls out the simple silver cuff from the Niffler nest. Nick chitters angrily at him, paws reaching out to hold onto it, but at Newt’s scolding look he lets it go with a mournful noise.

“Oh, we’ll have to return that,” Newt mutters, making a mental note to himself.

“Is that why yours is just brown? So this little one won’t go stealing it?” Jacob asks as he pockets the shiny silver cuff, Nick's beady eyes locked on it still.

“He wouldn’t be able to steal mine either way,” Newt replies absentmindedly as he moves away from the Niffler nest to pile up Erumpent feed in a wheelbarrow. “It’s locked specifically to my magic.”

“And besides,” he adds as he pushes it towards the Erumpent habitat, the strain of it easier with the lightening charm on the wheelbarrow, "my family has never used anything shiny, the hippogriffs don’t like it.” 

“Is your whole family…” Jacob trails off and motions at Newt’s general being. “Like you, then?” 

“Oh no. My mom’s a respectable hippogriff breeder. She had hoped that I’d follow in her footsteps instead of gallivanting around the world as a magizoologist. Not a real career, she says.” Newt shrugs as he transfers the feed to where Ella is anxiously waiting. He's already used to the disparaging comments, the sting of it already long soothed. Theseus is mostly supportive so he supposes that helps, but even Theseus would rather he was safe and behaved and a part of his silly ‘Ministry family’. 

“I understand,” Jacob nods solemnly. “My grandmother doesn’t approve of my bakery dream. She doesn’t believe I can do it.”

"I believe in you," Newt says honestly and Jacob blinks at him.

"Oh. Thank you." He sounds earnest and grateful and Newt smiles.

The sound of knocking interrupts both of them and they look up.

"Oh, better go up then, the girls must be upset," Jacob says, sounding genuinely apologetic.

Newt thinks nothing of going up the ladder, Jacob right behind him, until he opens the top and pops his head up in an unfamiliar place. It’s definitely not the room that the Goldsteins left them in.

They exit his case and Newt finds himself surrounded by a crowd of people, all of them staring down at them in hostility. There's an air of palpable tension in the hall, enough so that even Newt is uncomfortable. He turns, wary and confused, and he finds Graves at the end.

Graves only looks back at him impassively, no emotion in his face, and there is something instinctual in Newt that knows that he won't be of any help. 

"Scamander?"

He winces and looks up at the familiar voice. 

"Hello, Minister."

"Theseus Scamander? The war hero?"

"No, this is his little brother." The mocking in the Minister's tone makes Newt stiffen. Oh, Merlin. He can already imagine what Theseus would say once the news got back to him, he'd be so frustrated with Newt. The Minister raises an eyebrow at him. "And what are you doing in New York?"

"I came to buy an Appaloofsa Puffskein, sir."

"Right. What are you really doing here?"

The imposing woman in the front interrupts to ask Tina about Jacob, and the crowd is immediately incensed once they're informed of the Muggle in their midsts. Jacob is looking around the room with barely concealed fear and Newt winces.

"You know which of your creatures was responsible, Mr. Scamander?"

Newt looks up at the body, and his eyes catch on the familiar marks on its cheek. His blood runs cold. The Obscurus child…

"No creature did this. Don't pretend! You must know what that was, look at the marks… That was an Obscurus."

The volume in the room rises at his words, but Picquery immediately cuts across it, her voice no-nonsense and cold. "You go too far, Mr. Scamander. There is no Obscurial in America.” 

Newt glances at Graves, his mouth opening to bring up their conversation to defend himself, but his throat locks, a warning spasm of pain stitching his lips together. His hands fly up to his throat in horror, his eyes widening as it closes and works against him. 

"Impound that case, Graves."

Newt's gaze snaps towards his soulmate as Graves flicks out his wrist, Newt’s case flying across the room to his side. He meets Newt's eyes.

Newt can't speak, he's literally speechless. Nothing about their conversation earlier, nothing about how Graves also suspects that it's an Obscurial, not one bit of it is allowed to leave his mouth.

_"Mr. Scamander," Graves calls out after he's turned his back on him and already taken a few steps to get away. Newt stiffens. He turns, wary._

_Graves gazes at him impassively. "May I have your word that this conversation will be kept private? I don't want the others to worry. They'll want to eliminate the child. It wouldn't do for America to have an Obscurial, you understand."_

_Newt's lips thin but he nods. He understands what people do to things they don't understand far too well. "You have my word. I won't, Mr. Graves, I promise."_

He stares at Graves in horror. His soulmate had cursed him, had taken his promise and made it into a Vow that Newt couldn't break. Why… And just how powerful was he?

Graves reaches down to touch his case and Newt's words come rushing back.

"Wait! No!" he helplessly begs his soulmate, desperate, but he knows it's futile. Those cold eyes are back and Newt _knows_ then. Graves doesn't care a single bit about him. "Give that back!" 

"Arrest them," President Picquery orders.

Graves' magic comes rushing at him and Newt immediately struggles, his nerves firing at the sense of wrongness. Everyone spoke of your soulmate's magic being compatible with yours, of the rightness you would feel with their magic on your skin, but this… This feels wrong. Newt feels as if he was dumped in burning ice, and when Graves brings his hand down, Newt's body follows until he's on his knees and restrained. 

He knows that Graves won't help him, knows that maybe Graves has a duty to obey the President, to uphold the law and keep America safe, but Newt is too desperate not to try one last time. "Don't hurt those creatures," he pleads, his eyes locked on his soulmate's. "Please, you don't understand."

Graves moves across the room, his face expressionless. Uncaring of Newt's desperate pleas.

"Nothing in there is dangerous, nothing!"

"We'll be the judges of that. Take them to the cells." 

The Aurors behind grab him and begin to drag him backward, but Newt doesn't look away. He only stares at Graves desperately, helplessly, as fear fills him.

"Don't hurt those creatures," he begs. They've only just met, but if Graves felt anything, anything at all for what Magic deemed his soulmate, maybe Newt could get through him. Even if Newt already hated him, already disliked him, he didn't care, he'd do anything. "Nothing in there is dangerous! Please, don't hurt my creatures!" 

And yet, even as he continues to beg, his soulmate does nothing.

 

*

 

"I am so sorry about your creatures, Mr. Scamander. I truly am." And she does sound truly apologetic, Newt thinks as he ducks his head, his eyes blank. But that doesn't change anything. 

"Mr. Graves will help you, won't he?" Jacob pipes up nervously, wringing his hands. "He's your soulmate!"

"No," Newt says dully, looking at his hands. "He won't. I know he won't." 

"Oh, um, Newt?" Jacob says awkwardly, and Newt looks up.

He turns and his heart just about stops at the sight of Graves striding towards the cell, confidence with every step and, Newt notices, his hands empty of Newt's case. Newt watches him come closer with the same kind of apprehension he does with an unknown, dangerous creature, albeit with a little more bitterness.

Graves glances at Tina and Jacob and then directs his full attention to Newt. Newt tilts his head and tightens his jaw.

“I do have to interrogate you, Newt,” Graves says apologetically. Newt darts a quick glance up from his fingers, a little mistrustful still after earlier, but he quickly looks away at the first look of dead eyes. “But I figured we could talk privately beforehand. A little leeway, since you're my soulmate.” 

“Sir,” Tina spoke up, her voice small. “I don’t think that’s allowed, it—“

“Tina.” Graves’ tone is sharp and Tina immediately quells at it.

Graves turns back to him and stares at him seriously, squatting down slowly before reaching out through the bars of the cell to grasp Newt’s twisting fingers with his cold hands. “What do you say?”

Newt swallows, his eyes locked on their joined hands. “Alright,” he says quietly.

"Would you like to see your case?"

Newt looks up at that, his eyes wide, hope filling his chest. "You'd… you'd let me?"

"Of course," Graves murmurs, and despite the warmth in his tone, his eyes are still cold. "I know how much they mean to you."

 

*

 

Graves' office is clean, impersonal. Everything is in its proper place, clean and proper, and the only thing that doesn't fit is Newt's beat up case. 

It's exactly what he had imagined all those years ago when Newt had first seen a picture of the put together Director, yet Newt can't help but sigh in relief at the sight of his case on Graves' table. He rushes over to it, his hands reverent over the leather. The tension in his shoulders loosen and he allows himself to give Graves a thankful look.

"Let's go," Graves says brusquely. Newt hesitates. The case is basically his home, his life, and he doesn't make the habit of inviting people he doesn't like. 

But he's your soulmate, a voice inside him insists. 

He looks away and reluctantly brings the case down to the floor. He opens the case.

"Come on then," he mutters, avoiding Graves' gaze before he slips in.

It quickly becomes very clear to Newt that he's not the only one unnerved by the man who should be his soulmate. His creatures aren't the friendliest bunch, but they more or less behave themselves in the presence of company.

There's something about Graves that makes them nervous though, Newt can tell. The past few years, he's spent more time around creatures than men, and he's learned how to read the variety of tells from the creatures that pass through his case.

All of them, from the sweet mooncalves to the wary, defensive occamies, to sensitive Frank… All of them shy away from Graves, some more aggressively than others.

Yet Graves looks unbothered, uncaring even as his greedy eyes take in the multiple habitats in Newt's case, the creatures he has resting temporarily in each of them.

It just drives in Newt's doubts from earlier, from the moment Graves so easily used his magic against him to subdue and restrain him. His gut churns uncomfortably. 

Newt worriedly glances at Dougal's nest. He's still missing, and Newt needs to find him before anyone else can. And of course, the child with an Obscurus. 

He glances towards the silent man beside him, meeting his soulmate's eyes and then he quickly looks away, his lips pressed tightly together. _Why?_ he wants to ask. _Why did you curse me with silence?_

"The charms on this," Graves abruptly breaks up the silence. "Did you do it yourself?"

Newt rocks back on his heels and shoves his hands in his coat pockets. "Ah, no, not all of it," he admits, his eyes watchful on Graves' back as he strolls through the habitats. A bit of Newt is peeved at the ease at which Graves does so, as if he feels like he owns the place when it's Newt's.

"My old professor, Professor Dumbledore, he helped me set up a lot of the Transfiguration, the Weather Charms a few years back. I've mostly learned how to do it myself now though," Newt says awkwardly. Graves stops mid-step, a sudden tension to his form that makes Newt wary.

Graves turns, his eyes dark, and Newt stiffens but he stands his ground.

"You're an interesting man, Mr. Scamander," he says, crossing his arms and drawing attention to the muscles underneath his white button down. Newt waits to feel attraction, but the bit of it that he does feel is buried by the resentment and the anger that Newt still feels from earlier.

He knows. Something in him knows that he can't trust Graves.

He looks at Newt curiously, assessing, and Newt shifts under the weight of his gaze, uncomfortable. "You were thrown out of Hogwarts for endangering human life…" 

"That was an accident!" Newt immediately interjects, looking up only to look away again. He had known that Graves had looked him up, but his service in the war was miles away from the records of that incident. 

"Yes," Graves replies, his eyebrows raised skeptically. "Of course, an accident. With a beast."

Graves moves towards him, his presence imposing, and Newt grits his teeth.

"Albus Dumbledore," he states slowly, coolly. "He argued strongly against your expulsion, and from what you tell me, he's helped you a lot with this case."

Graves steps in close, invading Newt's personal space, and it takes everything in Newt not to step back. He shrinks into himself, nonetheless. There’s just something about Graves that makes him feel remarkably small, his whole presence imposing.

Newt’s had his fair share of magical creatures with strong, heavy auras, but none of them quite compare to Graves’ powerful, menacing disposition, just the hint of a tightly coiled maliciousness in it that makes Newt shift nervously.

"Tell me, Newt," Graves says softly. "What makes Albus Dumbledore so fond of you?" 

Newt avoids his eyes. He tries to speak once more about their conversation only hours ago, but his throat is still locked. "I really couldn't say," he says instead. 

Graves tilts his head at him, expression scarily blank. 

"I admit," Graves says, "I've already been in your case." 

Newt frowns. Graves' gaze deliberately moves toward the icy tundra behind the tarp and Newt's gut drops.

"How curious." Graves tilts his head. "You didn't mention you had an Obscurus during our little chat. What would everyone think? You, who accused America of having an Obscurial, when you yourself are keeping one in your little case?"

Yes, Newt thinks, tightening his jaw. How curious indeed that Graves was free to bring up their conversation, while Newt was bound against his consent to speak nothing of it. 

"I managed to separate it from the Sudanese girl as I tried to save her, wanted to take it home, to study it, but it cannot survive outside this case," Newt says lowly. "It's—"

"You fool nobody, Mr. Scamander," Graves interrupts smoothly. "You brought this Obscurus into the city of New York in the hope of causing mass disruption, breaking the Statute of Secrecy and revealing the magical world."

Newt stares at him in betrayal. "You know that can't hurt anyone, you know that!" It's the first time that Newt has even managed to hint towards their private conversation and Newt knows by the irritated furrow in his brow that it rattles Graves. There's a glint in Graves' eyes and then—

"That's what everyone else would say, of course, and I doubt I can do much to change their mind when they're already…" he trails off and then smiles cruelly. "Riled up? No one would believe you, Newt." 

He leans in, voice harsh. "They would demand your execution."

Newt gapes.

"And you would… You would let them," he states, and Graves smiles.

"Of course not. It would look odd to order the execution of my own soulmate, wouldn't it?" Graves leans away, that easy power evident even in that simple motion. "I'll give you an opportunity, Mr. Scamander. You help me, and I'll help you. Quid pro quo."

“And Tina? Jacob?” He asks, and Graves eyebrows furrow.

“Tina? The Nomaj? What about them?”

“Will they be—will they…”

Graves expression clears. “Don’t worry about them.”

Newt looks away and just breathes, his mind racing along with his heart. Graves waits patiently for him, his eyes dark.

He doesn't trust Graves, not after what Graves had done. Not after what Graves had failed to do. 

But Newt has done far worse for his creatures.

"Then okay," Newt finally says. "I told you I'd help you with the Obscurial, and I will."

Graves smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so while i was rewatching FB, i found the scene where Newt was willing to trade the frozen ashwinder egg and Pickett very interesting. He says, of course that he wasn't really going to give Pickett away, but it brings up a lot of questions of just how much Newt is willing to do for his creatures.
> 
> and to add to that, I find Grindelwald such an interesting character, and I've always loved characters who manipulate and manipulate well. He's shown himself to be a master at it with Credence, with Queenie in the second movie, and I want to explore him doing so with Newt under the guise of being Newt's soulmate. i can only hope i do it justice lmao.
> 
> also, im going back to school on thursday, so updates won't come as often as they are now, but still fairly quickly. i'm still very inspired by gramander.


	4. Chapter 4

"Tina, I trust you can assist Mr. Scamander in getting the rest of his creatures back," Graves says brusquely. Tina looks up uncertainly, shifting where she stands in the jail cell. Behind Graves, Newt gives her an awkward smile that's bordering on a grimace and ducks his head.

"Yes, of course, sir," Tina says and Graves nods. He waves a hand and the gate unlocks. Tina swallows and then nods to herself before she exits the cell.

"Now, Newt," Graves says sternly, reaching out to tightly grasp Newt's wristband, almost painful. "Remember. Once you're done, you come to me. And even if you're not done, if I call, you come. Understand?"

"Yes," Newt murmurs, avoiding his eyes, his fingers flexing with the urge to yank his hand back. He feels as if he should be calling Graves _'sir'_. "I understand."

His wrist itches with the new magic Graves had put on his wristband—magic to act as a beacon for Graves, for him to Apparate to Newt's side if he called for him, magic for the other way around, Graves to call Newt to his, if ever, and who knew what else Graves had put on it. It was commonplace amongst soulmates, but Graves' magic felt wrong and Newt didn't miss how Graves hadn't offered for Newt to do the same on his own silver cuff.

"This is for your own good," Graves had said. He had grasped Newt's wrist in between his hands, firm, and Newt had shivered as his wristband tingled, burning at the weight of the magic being placed upon it. Graves never seemed to use his wand, and Newt wasn't sure if that was just because wandless magic came so easily to him, or if it was some silly powerplay Graves used to show off.

"Now, you're fine with Goldstein helping you?" Graves had asked, and Newt had nodded, unable to speak after everything.

Graves stares at him now, assessing, and then nods. "Be quick. There have been reports of something invisible around Fifth Avenue, Macy's department store."

Newt nods back, and he only looks up when Graves lets his wrist go and Tina stands beside him.

Graves glances over the two of them. "I will talk to the President. Hurry, and be discreet."

Newt watches him leave, his eyes narrowed. He touches his tender wrist thoughtfully.

 

*

 

"Has Jacob... Has he already been obliviated?" Newt asks while he and Tina are making their way to the back entrance of MACUSA.

"Oh," Tina says, glancing at him and then grimacing. "About that—"

"Teenie!"

Newt turns, and his face brightens, a smile spreading across his lips at the sight of Jacob and Queenie walking towards them.

"Queenie," Tina hisses. "We're already in trouble, you can't just take him before he's supposed to be Obliviated. Mr. Graves has already stuck out his neck for us once, I don't think he'll do it again."

"I just figured we could use some more help," Queenie says and shrugs, smiling sweetly up at her sister. "I think Jacob would be a big help, don't you think?"

Tina glances at Jacob in slight disbelief, but before she can say something, Newt cuts in with an enthusiastic yes. Queenie and he share a smile, and Jacob fidgets, adjusting his vest with his own flattered smile on his face.

"Fine," Tina groans, "but he needs to be Obliviated after, alright?" She doesn't sound very convinced herself and Newt smiles.

 

*

 

When all is said and done, Dougal and the Occamy back in his case, Newt lets himself relax. He should have counted the Occamies, but everything worked out, more or less. Dougal made sure to babysit her; it would have been much worse if he hadn't been there.

He sighs and gets to work grinding up herbs. The Fwooper hadn't been laying eggs recently, and Newt was worried. With a bit of this and that, he thinks as he grabs them from the shelves, she'll probably be okay in a few.

"What did Mr. Graves do this time?" Queenie asks him, and Newt stills over his mortar and pestle.

"Please Queenie, I asked you not to read my mind."

"I know, I'm sorry. I can't help it." Queenie flashes him an apologetic smile. "I told you, people are easiest to read when they're hurting."

"I'm not hurting." Newt forces a smile. His wrist twinges, as if to remind him of earlier, and Newt looks away. He continues to grind the herbs together then and Queenie steps in closer towards him.

"You—You don't think Mr. Graves is really your soulmate?" Queenie asks, her voice small and her eyebrows furrowed.

Newt stops. He stares down at the half-grinded herbs and slowly, he puts down the pestle to its side. He looks up at Queenie, lips thin, as his mind darts over the place and Queenie makes a face.

"I don't know what I think," he says quietly. He scratches at his wristband, the itchiness bothering him, and Queenie's gaze drops down to it, a frown on her pink lips. "But I know that we don't fit."

"What are you talking about?" Tina asks as she walks in Newt's little potion making area.

"Mr. Graves."

Queenie and Tina share a look that Newt can't decipher and his shoulders tighten. He doesn’t look at them when he shoves his arm in front of them and flicks his wand, his leather wristband crawling back to expose his wrist and the name on it. The instant relief once his wristband is no longer restraining his wrist is shocking and Newt _breathes_.

"You know as well as I do that you can't fake soulmate marks, it's magically impossible," he says, avoiding their eyes. "Does this not look real to you?"

"Oh, Newt," Queenie murmurs, her eyes locked on the mark Newt had kept private for so long. He feels impossibly nude with it bare, his parents' warnings about keeping it to himself ringing in his head.

"You know," Newt starts. He lets out a thin laugh and covers his face, the movements automatic as he closes his cuff back over his mark. "Ever since I was a child, I've always wondered what Percival Graves would be like."

Queenie and Tina say silent and Newt smiles thinly.

"He's everything I expected him to be, and everything I hoped he wasn't."

 

*

 

"One of the Original Twelve of MACUSA," his grandparents murmur in approval. They look pleased, and Will Scamander shifts in his seat, his lips thin, but he ultimately says nothing.

Newt sticks his fingers into his mouth and Demeter sighs as she gently draws it out, replacing it with a dummy.

"Yes, we know," she says and slips the tiny leather wristband back onto Newt's wrist. "You've mentioned that already, right after I told you Newt was born Marked."

"A man though," Daphne sniffs in distaste and beside her, Ares Fawley nods, his severe face stern. Newt's parents share an exasperated look. Between them, Theseus wiggles, his back straight as he continues to try to copy his grandparents' impeccable postures.

"But at least, as close to pureblood as it gets in America," Ares adds, nodding once more in satisfaction. He turns to face the baby Newt in Demeter's lap who's chewing determinedly at his dummy. Newt gives a bright, gummy smile at his grandfather, and in return, Ares says, very solemnly, "You've done well."

"He's literally a baby," Will says stiffly. "He hasn't done anything. You don't even know what his soulmate is like."

"His Magic has decided on a respectable wizard from a strong, respectable, and influential family with a good reputation. That's all that matters," Daphne says, voice airy as she waves her hand. She glances right at her daughter and Demeter stiffens. "Not all of us are so lucky."

  
*

 

"Newton Artemis Fido Scamander!"

The door slams open, and Theseus looks up, his Charms book on his lap. He's 14, in his 4th year at Hogwarts, and he's supposed to be relaxing during the Christmas break but Theseus really wants to get the Accio down before then.

"Theseus," Demeter sighs, long and drawn out. She leans against the arch of his doorway, her hair falling from its elaborate updo to her sweaty face, and smiles at him tiredly. "Where is your little brother?"

"What'd he do this time?" Theseus asks instead of answering, and his mother sighs again and runs a hand through her hair in a valiant effort to fix it. 

"He brought a _Niffler_ inside the house! A pest!" She says, shaking her head in disbelief. "I can't find any of my jewelry, and your father and I are leaving for the Ministry Ball soon."

"I'll look for him. I'll bring it your room, don't worry," Theseus says and Demeter deflates.

"Thank you," she says sincerely and exits his room with a whirl of dress robes and the scent of her perfume trailing after her. Theseus waits a few seconds and then knocks on his closet door.

"She's gone," he says. The closet door opens and with it, his little brother's cute freckled face pops out, a pout on his lips and a struggling Niffler in his arms.

"He's not a pest," Newt says childishly, hugging the poor little thing to his chest. He gives Theseus a forlorn look but Theseus doesn't budge, only the slightest softening of his jaw showing.

"Newt," Theseus says in exasperation. He places his book on his desk and holds out his hand. "Mother's jewelry, please."

Newt sticks out his bottom lip and proceeds to flip the Niffler over, tickling its belly until a rush of jewelry and coins and shiny little baubles pour out over Theseus' closet and floor. The Niffler squeaks, hands reaching out to try to hold onto them, but eventually the last of them falls.

Theseus debates using his wand to practice Summoning his mother's jewelry but decides against it, reaching out to instead separate them by hand from the things he can deal with later. Just as he stands, Newt grabs onto the sleeve of his shirt.

"Please don't make me get rid of him, he's not a pest," Newt pleads, voice high and soft with his youth and Theseus makes a face. There's no heat in his scowl, however, and Newt beams up at him disarmingly, already so quick at seeing his brother's weakness.

"I won't. _You're_ the pest here," Theseus grumbles fondly and pinches Newt's chubby cheek, ignoring Newt's protests. "Brat like you deserves a soulmate that can keep you in line." He straightens out his clothes and stands up.

Newt is silent as he trails behind Theseus. It's only after Theseus pops his head in to drop the jewelry back, Newt and Niffler hiding behind him, and they're on the way back to Theseus' room that Newt speaks up.

"What do you think he's like?" His voice is small, worried, and Theseus' mildly annoyed look fades. "I don't want a soulmate who'll just order me around and tell me off for playing with my creatures like mum and dad do."

"He's your soulmate, I'm sure he'll be nice," Theseus says and pats his brother on the head. He can't resist a parting tease, "But not too nice, I hope."

Newt huffs and looks down at his shoes, petting the Niffler in his arms. "Still nothing for you, then?" he asks carelessly, all of 6 years old and uncaring of social mores.

Theseus glances at his brown leather wristband covering only what he knows to be the bare skin of his wrist, and shrugs. "Still nothing."

 

*

 

"What do you think he's like?" Newt asks, his gaze lost as he looks into the Forbidden Forest. He's filled with the overwhelming urge to run into it again and seek for the little snakelike creature he had glimpsed a few days earlier, but Newt had already gotten in trouble when his Head of House had caught him at it.

Leta's gaze darts down to his wristband and she shrugs.

"If he's from the Graves family?" she says, and then pauses thoughtfully. When she speaks, it's decisive, "Powerful."

"Would he be kind?" Newt's voice is soft, barely audible between the two of them.

Leta blinks at the question before her face softens and her lips quirk into a wry smile.

"You're kind enough for the both of you."

Newt smiles thinly. He notices that she hadn't really answered the question.

"If you really want to know, you should just write to him," Leta says, and Newt winces. Ever since Leta had found out who his soulmate was, Newt had been batting away questions on whether Percival Graves had already written to him, and why hasn't he?

"The Americans do it all the time, what's wrong with you writing him yourself?"

Newt bites his lips and runs his hands through the cut short grass. "You're right," he says. "Maybe I will."

 

*

 

"What are you doing?"

Newt stiffens and immediately tries to hide the letter he's writing, but it's the wrong move. It's only made his father suspicious, only made him stride faster towards Newt. He hunches his shoulders and doesn't stop his father when William Scamander plucks the envelope already addressed to Newt's soulmate in Newt's messy, sprawling script.

"Newton." Will's voice is stern and Newt winces. His father used to be softer when Newt was younger. Theseus had told him how different their father was even further back, years ago when it was just Theseus. The years as a Muggleborn married into the pureblood Fawley family had changed him, and privately, in his bitterest moments, Newt thinks to himself not well.

He ducks his head and waits to get scolded, as is the usual from his parents.

He's surprised when his father sighs and pulls out a seat to sit down close in front of him.

"Newt, look at me."

Newt looks up hesitantly and Will gives him a serious look.

"Have I ever told you what it was like to court your mother?"

"…No?" Newt says uncertainly. He shifts, uncomfortable. Is he going to get treated to the birds and the bees talk?

"It was hard," Will says bluntly. "The moment my name showed up on her wrist, I was already disadvantaged. It's not a wizarding name, you see."

"I know that," Newt says. He's already heard it all from his grandparents. They imagine themselves to be the progressive sort of purebloods, not like those foul Dark families that disowned their children if they choose to be with Muggleborns or even Half-bloods. But their prejudices were clear and hard to break, no matter that the Fawleys were supposedly a Light family, especially one that produced so many loyal, fair Hufflepuffs.

"And I only made it worse when I showed up at Hogwarts, got my mark, and learned all about soulmates. Do you know what I did, then?" Will leans in, face drawn and serious. "I showed everyone in the Ravenclaw common room my mark, and asked if anyone knew her."

Newt's eyes widen and he stares in horrified disbelief. His parents had drilled into their heads the importance and the need for them to keep their marks private, and the just the thought of his father baring his mark for everyone in his House to see makes Newt blanch. His father seems to read his expression well because he nods, leaning away with a long, drawn-out sigh.

"It didn't help that I didn't know the proper way to court her at all," he continues. "I made a right mess of things, almost ruined it for the both of us."

"What do you want from me then, father?" Newt asks quietly and his father's lips thin.

"Your grandparents wanted to arrange her marriage to someone else, even if they knew we were soulmates. Listen, Newt, this is important." Will takes a deep breath. "I asked—I _begged_ for lessons from the purebloods around me in how to court her, how to treat her, and I was a Ravenclaw so you know I looked in the library first. But the thing is, these Traditions that these purebloods have? Nobody writes it down."

Newt nods slowly. He knows that. His mother had already taught them the proper way to present his wrist, the proper way to court and send gifts to show interest, the best way to show respect to his soulmate. They taught him even if they already knew Newt's soulmate was American.

"You get it right, or you offend them. You think your soulmate is any better?"

Newt looks down at the letter he had written and purses his lips. Remembering what he had put down, even with all the drafts he had written with Leta at his side for weeks, it seems childish now, not respectful at all in the way his mother would have preferred. Percival Graves would be at least 25, he probably would have seen Newt's letter as juvenile, not fit for one his standing and age.

"I'll try to ask around for guides in American Soulmates, but I can't make you any promises, Newt. I doubt I'll find any. Percival Graves seems like the type to appreciate it if you follow Tradition, believe me."

Newt nods acceptingly. He hesitates, just for a bit, before he reaches out to crumple his half-written, foolish love letter of introduction. Weeks of work, gone. His father nods, the approval in his gaze enough to soothe the hurt in Newt's heart, and he closes his eyes when his father reaches out to gently touch his shoulder.

"What now?" Newt mutters, voice small.

"Either Percival Graves writes you, or you find him yourself." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, remember how this story is tagged newt & theseus along with gramander? This is a purely self-serving chapter bcos I love complex familial relationships. AND, I like the HC that newt's mom is a pureblood and his dad is a muggleborn, and I picked the fawley family bcos someone else did and the Fawley's are affiliated to Hufflepuffs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> newt finds out

Newt returns to Graves, his shoulders hunched. The itch of his wristband eases at Graves' presence, and with it, Newt's shoulders loosen. The ever-present need to scratch had bothered him more than he thought. The longer he had delayed from coming back, the worse it had itched.

They go back to his case. After Graves makes sure to account for all of Newt’s creatures, he heads back up to poke around Newt's study. There's nothing that incriminating in plain view, only drafts of Newt's manuscript for his book and little drawings of the creatures he's encountered, so Newt lets him without care.

Newt takes a few minutes to himself to just _breathe_  and then double-check everything is okay with his creatures, and as he passes by the Niffler nest, he sees Nick smug with his newest acquisition. 

“Hey,” Newt scolds as he grabs Nick and holds him upside down. Nick chitters at him and frantically tries to push his newest acquisition into his belly, but Newt quickly grabs it and pulls it away. “Where did you even—"

He pauses. Newt frowns as he holds up the sleek silver cuff, the scorpion engraved on it telling enough on who owned it.

“How did you get this?” He asks in confusion. Despite the Niffler’s remarkable skill, he shouldn’t have been able to steal Graves’ wristband from him, not if Graves had locked it with his own magic. He would have thought Graves would have invested in the more expensive sort of cuff, the kind that marked purebloods back in Britain wore. Even Newt heavily charmed his against theft or removal, plain as it was.

He stills.

Newt rubs a thumb down the seam, his mind racing. Graves _should_  have been wearing a cuff locked to his magic. Anything else would be foolish, especially for one of his pedigree and his position in MACUSA. The make of the cuff in Newt's hands was well-done, the elegance telling of its cost. A brewing suspicion churns in his stomach, the weight of the cuff suddenly daunting in his hands. Newt swallows and looks up at the little study area of his case that Graves is in.

He moves quietly, drawing his wand to his side. He knows his case like the back of his own hand, and he knows which steps to avoid, which parts creaked and would betray him. It is with incredible ease that Newt makes his way up to peak at Graves who's going through the drafts of his manuscripts.

And then he sees it.

Graves reaches out to a stack of papers, his sleeve pulling back over his arm and revealing his wrist.

His _bare_ wrist. Unmarked.

Newt stares, stunned. His mouth is dry with shock, confusion, his grip tight on his wand.

Later, he'll regret what he does next.

He'll think back on this moment and realize that he should have disarmed the other man, used the Swooping Evil tucked in his sleeve, but Newt's first instinct is curiosity, a burning need to know, and this is what betrays him.

Newt's grip is firm and steady when he casts, quietly, "Revelio."

The moment the spell leaves his wand, Graves is already turning, hand flying out towards Newt even as his features melt and shift back into its original form. Newt is forced onto his knees once more, his hands restrained behind his back, his wand clattering noisily to the floor and his body unable to move. He tries to shout, to call on any of his creatures just a floor beneath him, but with another wave of the impostor's hand, Newt is silenced.

"That was rude, Mr. Scamander," Gellert Grindelwald says.

 

*

 

 

> _Well, little brother,_
> 
> _I don't know how much you have heard wherever you are about what's going on in jolly old Europe but this chap Grindelwald has been making a lot of noise since you have been away._
> 
> _Charismatic blighter, but the Ministry doesn't like him and nor does the International Confederation._
> 
> _He has upset a few of the big wheels and he's gone underground. I have been chosen to…_
> 
>  

Newt looks up from Theseus' letter at the soft sound from his case and sighs. He hauls his case up to his lap and pats it comfortingly.

"Dougal… you settle down now, please. It won't be long."

He skims the rest of Theseus' letter, smiling faintly at his brother's parting words.

 

 

> _… wishing you well—wherever you are. Good luck in whatever beastly quests you are undertaking!_
> 
> _Best regards,_
> 
> _Theseus_
> 
> _P.S. New York looks lovely this time of the year if you're considering where to go._
> 
>  

Newt considers replying to his brother and telling him he is in fact, finally on the way to New York. As a stopover maybe on the way to Arizona for Frank but if fate will bring Newt to his soulmate, then Newt will let it.

Maybe he'll even buy a Puffskein for Theseus. Just the thought of the look of Theseus' face once Newt presents the little ball of fluff is enough for Newt smile. Theseus pretends he's so tough and put together in front of the British Wizarding Society, but Newt knows Theseus is soft for certain creatures, although not as much as him. _'A fine way for passing the time, Newt, but not as a professional pursuit.'_

He eventually decides not to say anything to Theseus yet though. Better to just wait and see if Newt will actually meet his soulmate. If he doesn't, at least his brother wouldn't have to be excited only to be disappointed with the news that Newt had finally gone to New York and yet still didn't actively search for Percival Graves.

And besides, Theseus seems busy enough with the whole Grindelwald situation in Europe.

Contrary to his brother's beliefs, Newt has been keeping up with the news the past few years, even while he was at the other end of the world. He knows very well who Grindelwald is, that he was recruiting followers, that he was causing destruction no matter where he went. He seemed to collect followers as easily as Newt befriended creatures, and Newt wondered why exactly that was so. Charisma couldn't be all of it.

A part of Newt was worried for his brother and himself, but New York seemed so far away from Europe. The Grindelwald Situation surely wouldn't have reached New York itself.

Newt tucks Theseus' letter away and resolves to reply once everything is done and finished. His brother had Grindelwald to deal with. Surely the topic of Percival Graves could wait.

 

*

 

"Fascinating," Grindelwald muses, leaning in to pluck the silver cuff engraved with the scorpion away from Newt. Newt watches him silently, warily. "I didn't notice that your little pet stole this from me, remarkably talented sticky fingers there."

Grindelwald slips the cuff back onto his wrist, closing it manually. He tilts his head at Newt, appraising him carefully, his mismatched eyes intent. "Truly fascinating. All your creatures are, in fact," he says, and Newt's gut clenches at the now familiar greed in those eyes. It's not the dark eyes of Percival Graves, but the look is exactly the same.

"It's the only reason I've kept you alive," Grindelwald says, squatting down so his eyes are level with Newt's. Newt wants to look away but he can't, the _Petrificus Totalus_  too strong, unfightable without his wand. He's never been good at wandless magic and it shows now, even with how desperately he chants _Finite_ in his mind. "I would have rather killed you, but you've proved your uses, Newt."

The way he says Newt's name makes him tremble in disgust.

"Now, you better behave or things will happen," Grindelwald says casually, and Newt's eyes narrow.

Grindelwald smiles at him. "Tell me," he says, and the muscles in Newt's throat and jaw loosen, freed from the curse. "Do you ever imagine a world where your creatures are safe? Free from exploitation and poaching. Ingredient gathering done humanely and without harm, their habitats protected from Muggle deforestation and pollution…?"

"Of—Of course I have," Newt rasps. "But not as a result of genocide, I'm afraid."

"Genocide?" Grindelwald repeats innocently, "Only if they stand in the way. I feel as if you have a wrong impression of me, Mr. Scamander. I only want what's best for the Wizarding World."

Not, of course, what was best for Muggles.

Newt licks his dry lips, his throat bobbing as he nervously swallows. "What did you do with the real Percival Graves?"

Grindelwald's smile widens.

"Would you like to see him?"

 

*

 

"I'll give you an opportunity, Mr. Scamander. You help me, and I'll help you. Simple."

“And Tina? Jacob?” He asks, and Graves' eyebrows furrow.

“Tina? The Nomaj? What about them?”

“Will they be—will they…”

Graves' expression clears. “Don’t worry about them.”

Newt looks away and just breathes, his mind racing along with his heart. Graves waits patiently for him, his eyes dark.

He doesn't trust Graves, not after what he had done. Not after what he had failed to do. 

But Newt has done far worse for his creatures. 

"Then okay," Newt finally says. "I told you I'd help you, and I will."

Graves smiles. There's a pleased air about him as he backs off, his shoulders straight, his stride confident. Newt watches him, tense.

"Why would they think I'd do it deliberately?" Newt asks.

Graves turns towards him then, his head tilted. Newt avoids his eyes. "To expose wizardkind. To provoke a war between the magical and non-magical world," he answers smoothly.

Newt's eyebrows furrow and he frowns. "Mass slaughter for the greater good, you mean?"

Graves pauses at that. "Yes. Quite." 

Newt looks up, his gaze locking onto Graves' dark ones. "I'm not one of Grindelwald's fanatics, Mr. Graves," he says tersely.

"Of course," Graves replies. He sounds amused. "I think I'd know if you were."

 

*

 

Newt stares. His heart beats roughly against his chest, loud enough in his ears that Newt is surprised that Grindelwald can't hear it. 

"How long?" Newt asks, his voice hoarse as he stares at the prone form of Percival Graves, looking gaunt and starved, weak. Chained to the wall with enchanted chains, the runes on it radiating sickly Dark magic. Newt has seen enough of cages and chains to know no magic of his own would be a match for it. Beside him, Grindelwald doesn't answer, and Newt's hands tremble as he turns, expression wrenched. _"How long?"_

"Not long. Two weeks, I suppose," Grindelwald says nonchalantly and shrugs. Newt deflates, his breathing evening. Two weeks. That… wasn't that bad. "I've had matters to take care of in Europe, but as soon as I heard of the Obscurial in New York, I knew I needed to come myself."

Newt's head tilts towards Grindelwald, something about that statement niggling at his mind. "And who told you—how did you hear of the Obscurial?" 

Grindelwald smiles thinly at him. "Now, Mr. Scamander, that'll give away too much. I have eyes and ears everywhere, didn't you know?"

Newt did know.

Grindelwald turns to look at Graves and his cruel smile widens. "See, I know you care deeply for your creatures, but I figured you needed a little more incentive."

Newt has lived 29 years without his soulmate, and he thought he could live the rest of his life without him. But that shouldn't be his choice to make. And, Newt thinks hopelessly as he stares at the unconscious man chained up in front of him, Newt doesn't think he can choose anything that will bring him harm.

Helping Grindelwald himself would never result in anything good, but Newt can't say no, not if it meant leaving his soulmate helpless at the hands of the Dark Lord.

"Don't hurt him," Newt says roughly. If Newt was stronger, he would try to do something, would pull out his wand or call for the Swooping Evil still tucked in his coat, but Grindelwald was unpredictable and Newt didn't know how much control Grindelwald had in this prison, what he could do in response to Newt—or worse, to _Graves_.

Grindelwald chuckles and looks away, smug as he takes in the unconscious body of the man he had been impersonating. Newt takes his chance and quickly pats his chest pocket.

"As long as you give me no reason to, Mr. Scamander."

Grindelwald suddenly stills, his body coiling into a tense spring, and Newt tenses in response. He holds his breath, his hands tightening into his coat. When Grindelwald turns to him, a triumphant grin on his face, all Newt can do is watch him warily, fear thrumming low in his veins.

"Well, Mr. Scamander. Duty calls," Grindelwald says and holds out his arm. "Now come. The Obscurial is waiting."

Newt’s wristband tingles. He swallows down his anger, his disgust, and he takes Grindelwald's arm.

Newt allows himself one last look at his soulmate's body before they Apparate away. He only lets himself relax when Grindelwald says nothing about the flash of green on the floor darting towards the chains.

 

*

 

"Can you tell me a little about the situation here in New York?" Newt asks carefully. He still can't repeat anything of what Graves and he had talked about, how Graves himself suspects it's an Obscurial, but Newt wanted more information to go on.

Tina hesitates and then leans in. When she speaks, her voice is hushed. "They don't want the people to panic, but there have been rumors that they think this is related to the Grindelwald attacks in Europe." 

"Is that why the British Minister and all of those people were there?" Newt asks, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. He wonders how fast word will travel to Theseus and how soon his brother will wait before seeing fit to interfere. He wonders what his parents would say. Surely they'd be disappointed at the mess Newt has found himself in again.

Tina nods. "The International Confederation has been threatening to send a delegation since the first incidents, but Director Graves has been insistent it was a beast."

Newt licks his lips. "What do you think?"

Tina gives him a confused look and tilts her head. "Didn't you say you think it was an Obscurial?" she asks, and Newt hesitates, just for a moment, his eyes searching hers before he nods.

"Then I agree with you, it must be an Obscurial. Director Graves doesn't think it's Grindelwald, and I don't know why a Dark Lord would interest himself in matters like these, so," Tina shrugs helplessly and Newt draws away. He nods thoughtfully.

He has a few thoughts on why Grindelwald would be interested in an Obscurial, but he doesn't bring it up.

 

*

 

Newt looks around at the bodies on the floor, horror filling him. The woman from the bank who had asked if he was a seeker of truth, and a little girl, both dead with the marks of an Obscurus out of control. Grindelwald doesn’t even spare them the slightest of glances, already heading straight towards the boy cowering on the corner.

"Help me," the boy, barely more than a child begs, trembling and shaking, desperate. There’s a thrumming around him, something familiar, and Newt's heart aches just looking at him. Credence, Grindelwald had called him earlier. Grindelwald is wearing Graves' face again, and Newt can't bear to even look at him without thinking of the real Graves left behind in that damned prison.

Grindelwald slaps the boy and Newt flinches, instinctively reaching out to stop him but at Grindelwald’s glare he backs off. Newt’s body thrums with angry tension until he's twitchy with the urge to do something. He can’t abide cruelty. The boy gives him a helpless, pleading look, and Newt’s fists clench—but the boy turns back to Grindelwald, still so trusting, and Newt seethes.

The boy trusts who he thinks is Graves, depends on him. To him, Graves was a safe space, someone who gave him hope and refuge away from the abuse.

And Grindelwald only cared for him in terms of what he could do.

“Where’s your other sister, Credence?” Grindelwald asks impatiently, and Newt can only silently watch as the caring persona melts away, replaced by the monster Newt knows is underneath. At Grindelwald’s goading on the grave danger Credence’s sister is in, he finally takes them to where Modesty must be.

And this is where everything goes to shit.

“You’re a Squib, Credence. I could smell it off you the minute I met you.” Grindelwald is cruel and the boy immediately looks heartbreakingly confused.

“What?” Credence asks, and Grindelwald continues.

“You have magical ancestry, but no power.”

“But you said you could teach me.”

“You’re unteachable. Your mother’s dead, that’s your reward. I’m done with you,” Grindelwald says coldly. He strides down the hall and calls out, “Newt, come.”

Newt stares at his back and turns towards the shaking boy. The negative magical energy that Newt had first sensed in him is back, and it’s stronger now, more potent. Newt stills, realization dawning on him as the energy crosses into a dark familiarity, one that Newt could never forget after Sudan.

“Newt,” Grindelwald repeats in irritation, and Newt’s wristband twinges, heating slightly. “Come.”

The walls around them shake, bits of plaster dropping from the ceiling and Grindelwald looks up with a frown.

“He’s the Obscurial,” Newt says, voice hushed as he takes a few steps away from Credence, his hands held out non-threateningly. Grindelwald’s look of irritation blanks. It quickly morphs into concern, sickly sweet and _fake_.

Black wisps of liquid smoke rise from the boy, and Newt swallows down the instinctual fear, his gaze darting back and forth between Credence and Grindelwald.

“Credence, I owe you an apology,” Grindelwald says smoothly, and Newt gives him a warning look.

“I trusted you,” Credence says brokenly, his voice cracking. “I thought you were my friend. I thought you were different.”

“I can be your friend,” Newt says softly, soothingly. “You have to calm down, Credence.”

Credence looks at him, and there is anger and hurt in those eyes, and Newt holds his breath.

"No," Credence moans, shaking his head, and Newt's gut drops.

“You’re working with him,” he says, and the shaking of the house intensifies, the black smoke-liquid overwhelming him until his body is formless underneath it. “I can’t trust you.”

“No,” Newt quickly denies, “I’m not—you have to understand—“

“You can control it, Credence,” Grindelwald calls and the black wraps around Credence, power rising around him.

“But I don’t think I want to, Mr. Graves.”

The room explodes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, before u all can ask, Grindelwald and Albus _aren't_ soulmates, and I'm so excited to expand on that when we get into CoG canon events.
> 
> So I debated with myself the past two weeks where to take this, and I figured I didn't want to too closely follow FB canon because then that would be boring. And of course, if for want of a nail, the kingdom loses, what more with soulmates and silver cuffs change? What will stay the same? And I settled with this because I wanted to lead up to Crimes of Grindelwald and get into Grindeldore and the Grindelwald and Newt interactions, and you've all probably watched Fantastic Beasts so why bother just making it exactly the same?
> 
> anyway, im nervous! i've been trying to hint towards the niffler eventually stealing graves' cuff but idk how obvious it was.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what has graves been up to 🤔

Percival doesn't know how long it's been. There is no light, nothing to mark the passage of time, and it is only with the dimmest hope that he lets himself think it can't possibly have been that long. 

Sooner or later, someone will notice.

He sleeps, mostly, under the influence of the runes and the chains. He doesn't know if Grindelwald ever feeds him, but the persistent ache of hunger and thirst that gnaws inside him tells him no.

And yet, Percival is still alive, in the barest sense of the word. He is still breathing.

There are times that Grindelwald visits him, times when Percival is forced awake and away from the peacefulness of sleep. It is always to get information from him, information for Grindelwald to better pretend. Percival does his best to Occlude, to block out the more incriminating information, but while his Occlumency is strong enough against even most Legilimens and Veritaserum, his physical weakness betrays him.

The hunger, the thirst, the bone-deep tiredness, and pain just makes him more susceptible, and Grindelwald is many things, persistent one of them.

And then the peaceful blankness of the dreams change. Slowly, at first, almost imperceptible from the haze it used to be, but then Percival starts to get the impression of sounds, and smells, of flashes of light.

And then it gets clearer. The smells at first. Wet dirt, the smell of earth after it rains, the scent of trees and flowers and something distinctively animal. Then the sounds separate into soft chitters, the squawks of a bird, the bellows and purrs and roars of different creatures. He doesn't understand, not at first. The part of his mind that's still working, that's half-awake, is convinced that he's making things up, the product of his isolation and his sleep.

And then his sight returns, bit by bit, and Percival thinks he's going crazy. He dreams of creatures, big and small, magical and mundane alike. Some that he can identify from his Care of Magical Creatures class, others he can't. Unfamiliar beasts roam in his dreams, some of them contained in habitats with mere tarps separating them. He sees the 6-winged Thunderbird, and Percival can't help but wonder, dazed, if he'll dream of his house mascot as well.

He doesn't end up dreaming of any Wampuses, but he does dream of wide-eyed Mooncalves, Occamies with their valuable silver shells, and of a mischievous little Niffler. He dreams of freckled hands, long fingers, and these beasts coming to him as if he was one of them.

No one would ever describe Percival as approachable, and seeing these creatures come to him, or to whoever Percival is when he dreams, it's nothing like he's ever experienced. The part of him that's awake is in awe. He's never seen these creatures, not with MACUSA's ban on magical breeding and creatures, never even considered the possibility of getting up close and personal to them, actually getting to touch them.

He… He reconsiders a few things. His views. His prejudices. His fear.

It's only then—when the state of his mind is softer, more calm, that Percival realizes who he's been dreaming of.

His soulmate.

 

*

 

It all seems unreal, fantastic, like something out of a children's fairy tale book, or from legends themselves. The soulmate connection is self-preserving and acts in mysterious ways, but never like this. Percival has never thought himself to be one to have such a vivid imagination, or particularly appreciative of magical creatures, but he has nothing so he lets himself have this. These little glimpses of his soulmate's life, the creatures he keeps company with.

Then—the dreams change. They become sharper, the world around him coming into focus instead of the haze that had perpetrated everything.

Percival sees, and he knows, that his soulmate is in New York. 

He doesn't know what's happening outside of his dreams, nothing outside of what Grindelwald gives him when he visits, and so Percival is surprised when the familiar sight of MACUSA appears, still standing strong as ever, and it's like a vision in a desert, water to a starving man even if it's because of the mess his soulmate has made in the bank.

The sight of his own face, his impostor, is much less so.

"Sorry," Percival hears his soulmate say. "Did you say—I mean, are you Percival Graves?" 

"Yes, Mr. Graves, and this is—"

"Newton Scamander."

 

*

 

It is during one of Grindelwald's rare visits that Percival is once again forced awake.

The shift from sleep to awareness is slow, Percival's mind foggy and disoriented. He can feel Grindelwald's presence in the edge of his prison. He keeps his breathing even, feigning sleep, but that does nothing to fool Grindelwald.

"I've met the most interesting man today, Mr. Graves," Grindelwald coos. Percival doesn't open his eyes, his breathing haggard in the silence between them. Grindelwald moves towards him, his footsteps loud in Percival's prison and at this, Percival finally forces himself to open his eyes in wary dismay. He's still dazed, the memories of his dreams slipping through his mind like sand in water, but there's something that Percival needs to remember.

Grindelwald stops in front of him and then squats. Percival's own face stares back at him and Percival scowls, hatred brimming inside of him at the reminder of how Grindelwald had stolen his wand, had stolen his face and his life while Percival rotted in here.

Grindelwald reaches out and Percival can't help but flinch away, expecting pain, but Grindelwald only laughs in cruel amusement and grips his chained wrist.

Percival doesn't understand what he's doing. His head lolls back, his eyes fluttering as he tries to focus on Grindelwald. Grindelwald, whose gaze is intense on his wrist.

No, Percival realizes in horror as Grindelwald smirks. Not his wrist. His mark.

He tries to yank his wrist away, but Grindelwald only holds firm.

"Newton Artemis Fido Scamander," Grindelwald says out loud, mock thoughtfully. Percival's blood runs cold as Grindelwald's earlier words suddenly sink in.

_"I've met the most interesting man, Mr. Graves."_

His dreams come back to him with the rush of a Stupefy. Newt meeting who he thought was Percival Graves, the look of disgust on his face when Grindelwald had talked so callously about the Obscurial, the Vow that Newt didn't know he had taken.

“No,” Percival snarls, his energy suddenly renewed as he struggles against his chains, and Grindelwald only laughs.

“Don’t worry,” Grindelwald croons as he pats Percival’s cheek. “He's far too useful for me to get rid of him now. Maybe I’ll come back with his face on, just so you can see how very pretty he is.”

“Don’t,” Percival rasps through his sore throat. " _Don't_."

“And to think,” Grindelwald says softly. “He was so very excited to meet you.”

His chuckles echo in the room, even after he leaves, and Percival roars in rage.

He struggles against his restraints, the cuffs biting into his wrists and making them bleed. He pulls on the barest bits of magic locked inside of him, yet it only stirs, lost to him.

He has to get out, he has to do _something_ , he thinks desperately, but no matter how hard, no matter how hard  Percival fights to even at least keep his eyes open, he can’t. His body fails him.

He dreams instead. He dreams of his own face restraining Newt, of the bargain Newt makes to save himself and his creatures, of the cruelty Grindewald wears on his face so easily, and he mourns.

 

*

 

"You—You don't think Mr. Graves is really your soulmate?" Queenie Goldstein asks, her voice small and her eyebrows furrowed.

Percival struggles through the haze. _I am_ , he wants to say.

"I don't know what I think," his soulmate says quietly. He scratches at his wristband and Percival burns with the urge to yank it off. He eyes Newt's cuff with mistrust and distaste. Something in Percival knows that Grindelwald wouldn't have settled with just mere tracking and turning it into a kind of Portkey, not with the risk Newt holds. 

His breath of relief when Newt removes his wristband is unheard, but Percival feels it all the way down to his core. Then the leather wristband crawls back over Newt's wrist, exposing Percival's name, and a zing of shock goes through him at the sight of his handwriting spelling out his name. Of all the dreams he's had from Newt's eyes, he's never once seen Newt's bare wrist, never once seen his own name on his soulmate.

"You know as well as I do that you can't fake soulmate marks, it's magically impossible," Newt says, avoiding their eyes. "Does this not look _real_ to you?"

_It's real_ , Percival thinks desperately. _It's the Graves you know that isn't._

But Newt doesn't hear him. 

All Percival can do is watch as his soulmate closes the damned cuff back over his wrist, and then Apparates back to Grindelwald.

  

*

 

Percival watches Newt with resignation. The soulmate bond has allowed him to see, to be with Newt in this flimsy way, but it isn't enough. His warnings aren't heard, Newt is still in the detestable presence of Grindelwald, and who knows what Grindelwald is doing in his body.

Percival slumps. He doesn't know what Newt looks like, he's only ever seen out of Newt's eyes, and Newt barely even looks in the direction of a mirror. It's almost enough just to see how his creatures look at him, so trusting and easy with their affection, but Percival craves the sight of Newt's face, of what he looks like.

He takes in the sight of Newt's creatures once more, and it's so easy to just appreciate them. He still feels the same awe, albeit muted, as he did when he first laid eyes on the contents of Newt's case. Even the Niffler Nest is a sight for the eyes, filled with shining gold, polished bright, and—

“Hey,” Newt scolds as he grabs Nick and holds him upside down. The Niffler chitters at him and frantically tries to push his newest acquisition into his belly, but Newt quickly grabs it and pulls it away. “Where did you even—“

It's Percival's cuff.

Percival perks up, his breath stalling. His figurative spirit straightens up, tension tightening his frame.

"How did you get this?" Newt murmurs. He palms the cuff in his hands, his fingers running over the engraved scorpion, his thumb rubbing the seam and Percival's heart races. He's so close, he knows Newt has been suspicious and wary. This has to be the final straw. This is Percival's chance.

Newt looks up in the direction of where Grindelwald is in and Percival inhales sharply, pleased. But now, more than ever, he wishes he could do something more physical, more direct rather than just watching. He's never liked feeling useless, and the days he's spent looking out of Newt's eyes, unable to do anything, has only intensified that dislike.

Newt climbs up his set of stairs, Percival right with him in his mind. Newt has the advantage of surprise, of stealth, Percival tells himself. It'll be fine.

Then—

"Revelio."

_No_ , Percival thinks in horror, his face falling. _Newt, no._

The wandless, wordless _Petrificus Totalum_ comes to no surprise.

 

*

 

It's odd to see your own body.

Percival looks at himself with a mix of revulsion and pity, his gut churning at his gaunt, malnourished features. His beard is long and messy, a stark difference to the clean-shaven look he favors. He looks weak. Useless. The sight of himself is enough to hit hard in the hope he had left. All it does is drive in that even if he somehow gets out, Percival is running on two weeks—and at least he knows now how long Grindelwald has been keeping him—with no food, on fumes, and magically exhausted from the constant drain of the chains.

"Don't hurt him," Newt says gruffly and Percival cringes. They haven't even met. Newt knows nothing about him. Percival is not worth the risk of what Grindelwald has in mind for MACUSA, the destruction that he can cause in Percival's body or with Newt's creatures. He's not worth the damage Grindelwald can do to the Statute of Secrecy, the wars he can provoke into being.

_Would you make the same choice?_ A voice inside him wonders, and Percival pushes it away. He's not the one making the choices right now.

"As long as you give me no reason to, Mr. Scamander."

"Well, Mr. Scamander. Duty calls," Grindelwald says and holds out his arm. "Now come. The Obscurial is waiting."

Right before Newt takes Grindelwald's arm, he—and Percival, by extension—take one last look at Percival's body. Percival sees Pickett, the little green bowtruckle, race towards him.

Hope punches back into his chest, hard enough that Percival is winded, even if he knows undoing the chains wouldn't be enough. The chains aren't the only thing keeping him asleep, but it's one less barrier to the waking world and usefulness.

Then Grindelwald and Newt Apparate, and Percival knows no more about the fate of his body left behind.

 

*

 

Percival dreams once more. This time, he's painfully aware of the fact that he's dreaming, if only because he's seen his own unconscious body. 

Then _sensation_ comes to him through the haze that pervades what he sees through Newt's sight. It's a sensation that isn't Newt's, and so Percival realizes it must be his.

It feels like—

Like—

Like tiny, sharp claws, scratching his skin. Like little fingers tugging at his nose, his eyelids, his ears.

It's—

It's Pickett, Percival realizes. It's the little bowtruckle trying to draw Percival back into the land of the living, and Percival laughs in surprised, maybe inappropriate joy.

_Wake up_ , he tells himself as Newt and Grindelwald arrive to see the Nomaj woman and child dead, as Pickett resorts to biting his unresponsive face.

_Wake up_ , he orders, desperate now as Newt and Grindelwald arrive in a different house, the boy in tow and shaking with nervous energy, until--

“But I don’t think I want to, Mr. Graves.”

The room explodes, Newt in it, right beside the Obscurus, and all Percival sees through Newt's eyes is darkness, the drowning blackness of the liquid black smoke that makes up the Obscurus. Horror, panic, fear fill him and Percival feels his magic rise for the first time in weeks, bursting out of him, tearing out of his skin and--

_Wake up!_

Percival's eyes open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhh so i hate this chapter a bit. unedited and rushed, and shorter than usual, but i wanted to make my self imposed deadline of weekly updates. and?? trying out percival's POV i guess? i'd appreciate comments! no update next week, it will probably come in two weeks bcos i have an exam on the 11th and the 14th lmao.


	7. Chapter 7

_The room explodes._

Newt Apparates away, but he's too close, too late to avoid getting out unscathed. He stumbles as he lands on the nearest roof, and hisses as he clutches his wand arm. His coat is torn, the skin underneath broken and raw. Newt can't help but be amazed a bit—his coat's been charmed against tearing after the last incident with the Nundu, and for Credence to tear it so easily—

There's a crack as Grindelwald Apparation follows on the rooftop across Newt, and they meet eyes.

"Follow him!" Grindelwald orders, snarling, and Newt doesn't think before he obeys. He Apparates to the next rooftop, focused now, intent on Credence's Obscurus form wreaking destruction.

"Credence!" Newt yells, running, his arms pumping, breath short. Black tendrils of smoke lash out at him, and Newt quickly Apparates out of the way, just as Credence destroys the section of the roof Newt had been on. Newt stares at it in shock, his heart racing in its chest with adrenaline.

He's no stranger to creatures and beasts lashing out, to the almost, not quite, of their claws or teeth or stingers when Newt makes the uncommon mistake of approaching them wrong. He's used to the inherent danger of dealing with beasts.

But Credence… Credence _hates_ him, thinks Newt is on the side of who he believes to be Graves. Credence is betrayed, upset, and Newt can't placate him with food or with toys.

And Newt doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know if he can fix this mess.

"Newt!" Grindelwald roars, and Newt moves into action, even as his mind races. He Apparates to the next roof, following Credence who's raging now, destroying everything in his path with no qualms or control.

"Credence!" He calls out again, and once more just barely Apparates away before the black smoke smashes into the ledge he was on. "Calm down, it'll be alright!"

There's nothing Newt can do. Nothing but try.

 

*

 

A speck of green fills his vision, little frantic sounds accompanied by the stinging sensation of tiny cuts on his face. The air around him is vibrating with Percival's own magic, his skin drenched in it, the hair on his arms standing up.

Percival grunts, squinting, and the little green thing darts away, down to his chest.

"Pickett…?" He mumbles, unsure, and the bowtruckle freezes, before it starts chittering again, louder. Despite himself, Percival's lips quirk into a strained smile. "Hello." 

And then—

_Darkness. Black, coiling, angry liquid smoke from the Obscurus overwhelming his—Newt's—vision. Horror, panic, fear, Percival's magic bursting out of him, tearing out of his skin uncontrolled—_

Percival's eyes widen as the memories of his dream rushes in and he tries to sit up, pushing himself off the grimy cell floor. His arms tremble, almost collapsing underneath his own weight, and for a moment his vision blacks out from the pain, the hunger, the magical exhaustion. Pickett hangs on his tattered robes, swinging himself easily on Percival's shoulders, and Percival is slapped back awake by tiny green hands.

"Yes," Percival slurs, blinking the dots back from his eyes furiously.

"Yes," he says again, determined, and he clutches on the wall for balance, the chains that had held him clanging and ringing under his feet as he stumbles and tries to stand. They're useless now, unable to hold him, and if Percival had his way, will _never_ hold him again.

His fingernails scratch and dig into the dirty wall, leaving grit underneath them. It's all that's keeping him upright, his legs weak, unable to hold him after weeks of disuse. It's a struggle to just merely stand, but Percival keeps going, keeps pushing himself.

He leans against the wall to catch his breath, his ribs expanding and pushing painfully against bruised, skinny sides. There's a rattle in his lungs and he wants to rest, just wants to close his eyes again just a little bit more. But he can't.

Percival needs to act fast, and act _now._ Each second trying to catch his breath is a second wasted. A second longer Newt has to be with Grindelwald, a second longer for the Obscurus to do damage on New York, a second longer for the Wizarding Community to be under risk.

His magic trembles close to his skin, and Percival has never felt it so alive before. It's almost sentient. It's as if his magic can feel his desperation and determination, and it's nearly vibrating in its excitement to be used in response.  Percival knows it can hold him, but not for long. He's running on fumes, and each action needs to be deliberated. He can't waste magic.

Newt. New York. They're both depending on him, and the thought of that makes him restless, makes him want to take matters into his own hands. Percival can't follow his instincts. He doesn't trust them anymore. The last time he had gone off to follow a lead, alone and confident in his own strength and superiority, Grindelwald had quickly overwhelmed him with power and numbers. He had been imprisoned as a result of it.

This time, Percival won't make the same mistake.

 

*

 

"I'm worried about Newt," Queenie confides quietly. "Something's just not right."

"It'll be fine, he's with Mr. Graves," Tina says, but even she doesn't sound as confident as she normally would have only hours later.

"Maybe we should have gone with him," Jacob mutters anxiously, pulling on his clothes. Tina bites her lip and then shakes her head.

"No, I think maybe spending time with Mr. Graves would help them both. Who knows? Maybe they'll find something in common." Even as Tina says it, she doesn't sound as if she quite believes it, but Jacob imagines she feels obligated to try. He doesn't understand the depth of what it means to be soulmates in the Wizarding Community, but he can sense how much it does mean to them.

He looks at Queenie, _wondering_ , his face hot. He looks just in time to see Queenie's expression blank and her eyes go far away. Queenie drops the plate she's holding and it falls.

Quickly, Tina whips out her wand and suspends the plate before it can shatter, her eyes wide.

"Queenie," she demands. "What's wrong?"

"The Obscurus," Queenie breathes. "It's out in New York. Newt's with it."

"What?" Tina asks, already pushing herself from the table, standing up. She Summons her coat and shoves her arms into it, her heart starting to race as she strides towards the door, Queenie at her heels. "What's happening?"

"I don't know," Queenie says, looking off into the distance, her voice hushed and eyes bright. "Newt's too far and too British, but everyone's…Everyone's so _loud_ , Teenie. The Nomaj are afraid."

"We have to go," Jacob immediately says. "We have to help him."

"No," Tina immediately snaps. Jacob's face must do something because Tina immediately looks apologetic. She softens her voice, but it does nothing to dull the blow. "You stay here, it's not safe out there for someone like you. Queenie, please watch him."

"We're going, right?" Jacob asks after Tina is gone. Queenie is already putting on her own coat, and she pauses at his words. She turns to him, eyebrows drawn.

"No," Queenie says, touching his hand, and Jacob holds it tight, unwilling to let go and be left behind. "Not you. I can't take you with me, honey."

"Why?" Jacob asks, hurt. "You're the one that said I was one of you'se, right?"

"It's too dangerous," Queenie says, regretful.

A knock on the door interrupts anything Jacob has to say to argue, and they pause.

"Are you expecting company?" Jacob asks.

"No…" Queenie says warily. She pulls out her wand and faces the door.

It opens, and Queenie almost drops her wand.

"Director Graves?" she asks, stunned, and Jacob gapes. It takes a moment for him to connect the half-starved, dirty man in front of them to the man that Newt had called his soulmate, the man that _should_ be with Newt at this moment. He looks entirely different from the put-together, clean-cut stern man that Jacob had the displeasure of meeting. Dirty and gaunt, hair long and greasy and falling on his face riddled with tiny cuts. He looks as if he's holding himself up by sheer force of will.

"Hello, Ms. Goldstein," Graves says politely, voice rough, and Queenie's eyes narrow, her grip on her wand tightening as she points it at him. "We need Newt's case."

"How do we know—"

Pickett pops out on Graves' shoulder and chitters frantically. Jacob and Queenie both relax at the sight of him, but Graves' serious expression doesn't change.

"Ms. Goldstein, I'm going to let down my shields. Look at anything you want," he says, and Queenie startles at that, her eyes wide. She glances back at Jacob, and he nods at her encouragingly.

She turns to Graves and gives him a tight smile.

"Of course. Well, let's hurry then, Mr. Graves. Time's-a-waistin'."

 

*

 

"To survive so long with this inside you, Credence, is a miracle. _You_ are a miracle." Graves says, voice smooth as he talks to the fearsome, coiling black smoke. Tina's breath hitches at the familiar name. The boy from the Second Salemer's. The one Tina had gotten in trouble and been demoted for. Even now she can't bring herself to regret helping him from his mother. "Come with me, think of what we could achieve together."

Tina has always found Percival Graves charismatic, and his charisma is out in full force now as she watches him from afar. Tina sees a familiar flash of blue at the corner of her vision, and she looks. She sighs in relief when she sees Newt hiding behind the wall, watching Graves with a troubled look in his eye.

She glances at Graves one more time before she Apparates to Newt's side.

"Newt," she hisses, and Newt jumps in surprise at the sight of her, his eyes wide.

"Tina," he says, urgent as he turns towards her, but Tina talks over him.

"It's the Second Salem boy, he's the—"

"That's not Percival Graves."

"What?" Tina says, stunned. She stares at Newt, speechless, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. All she can manage is to repeat, her voice strangled, "What?"

"It's Gellert Grindelwald. He's been keeping the real Mr. Graves captive, I've seen his wrist and he has no soulmark," Newt tells her seriously, eyes big and earnest, and Tina's jaw drops, her eyes searching his. There's no lie in his eyes, but Tina…Tina can't believe it. It sounds too impossible, too fantastic, and yet…

It explains so much. It explains _everything_. Tina shakes it off and resolves to think about more later, after they've dealt with the current situation.

"And the Obscurus?" she asks, faltering, and Newt nods.

"Yes, we were there when he lost control. His power must be so strong for him to manage to survive."

"Save him," Tina begs. "I'll call for back-up from the Aurors, and then we'll deal with the Grindel-Graves situation."

"Alright," Newt says, and nods. "Let's do this."

 

*

 

"Credence!" Newt calls out. Credence had rushed into the Subway Systems of New York, Grindelwald and Newt both hot on his heels, following him inside. The Obscurus lashes out at his voice and Newt ducks behind a pillar, holding his breath until it passes. He doesn't know where Grindelwald is now, and frankly, Newt doesn't care.

He had promised Tina that he would help Credence. He just needs to wait and trust now that Tina will arrive with back-up against Grindelwald.

Credence screams, the Obscurus rushing to fill the small tunnel, and Newt just barely Apparates away, stumbling past a different pillar.

He waits until Credence draws back before he takes in a deep breath and exhales.

"I'm here to help you, Credence," Newt tries again, keeping his voice low and soothing. The Obscurus doesn't lash out this time, and from the corner of his eye, Newt can see the black liquid smoke coalesce into a solid form. Credence appears, huddling into himself at the end of the tunnel. Newt swallows. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Credence says nothing, but even from this far Newt can see the fine trembles that wrack his body, the soft sobs that he can't hear.

"I've met someone just like you, Credence," he talks, unsure. "A girl. A young girl who'd been imprisoned, she had been locked away and she'd been punished for her magic."

Credence doesn't answer. The black wisps of smoke coming from him are weaker now, but still distinct from his body. Dangerous. Slowly, warily, Newt slides out of his hiding place.

"Credence… Can I come over to you?"

Credence looks up at him, hope clear in his eyes, and Newt feels his chest burn at the sight of it. He's always been weak to vulnerable creatures in need of help and love. Newt holds out his hands, non-threatening, and starts to move closer to the boy.

"Can I come over?" he repeats.

"That's right," Grindewald croons, pleased, and both Newt and Credence wince at the sound of his voice. "Newt and I will protect you. I just want you to be free, it's alright."

"No," Credence moans, distressed. "Not you, not you! You betrayed me!"

The black wisps around his form start to appear again, covering his body with liquid smoke, and Newt inwardly curses at Grindelwald's bad timing and apparent lack of ability to read a situation where he was unwanted. Soon, Credence will shift back into his Obscurial form again, and Newt doesn't know how capable he is in holding him back before Tina and the Aurors can arrive.

And then—

"Credence."

Newt exhales in relief at the sight of Tina, her eyes soft as she looks at the boy. Just a boy, Newt has to think, even if he has an Obscurus inside of him.

"Don't do this, Credence. Please," Tina says. Credence seems to relax at the sound of her voice, the smoke of his form settling until Newt can see the hints of his human body again.

"Keep talking, Tina," Newt quietly urges. "He's listening to you."

Tina glances at him, her gaze conveying millions. She's alone, without the Aurors, but Newt knows now that they're coming. Soon, she seems to say.

"I know what that woman did to you. I know that you've suffered. You need to stop this now," Tina continues, walking closer towards Credence, her hand held out, and expression pulled into concern and care.  "Newt and I will protect you. This man…He's using you."

"No," Credence moans. "Newt is with _him_."

Newt winces.

"Then just me," Tina declares, unabashed. "I'll protect you."

Grindelwald opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the sound of cracks fill the air.

"That's it," Seraphina says. Grindelwald freezes when instead of pointing their wands at Credence, the Aurors direct their wands at him.

"What are you doing?" he snaps. "How dare you?"

"Tina, go!" Newt hisses, and Tina stumbles back, holding her arm out to shield Credence. Credence whimpers from behind her and huddles down into the ground. He's holding his human form though, relief and gratefulness in his eyes as he looks at Grindelwald underneath the Aurors' wands.

Newt understands why Credence would feel relieved at the sight of it, someone who's betrayed him vulnerable. It's just Newt left who has to answer for his supposed crimes against Credence.

"I couldn’t believe it when Ms. Goldstein told me Gellert Grindelwald has been under our noses the whole time, but seeing you now, the real Percival Graves would never do this," Seraphina says snidely, her face severe as she stares down at him.

"And you just believe her?" Grindelwald snarls, pulling out Graves' wand.

"You've been suspicious for quite some time now," Seraphina responds, but there's hesitation there, and both Grindelwald and Newt see it.

Grindelwald takes advantage of it in a second, his wand flying out, spell flying at the President. He's outnumbered by the Aurors Seraphina had brought with her, their shield coming up quick.

Then in one breath from another, they start throwing spells back at Grindelwald, driving him back, but Grindelwald didn't get his fearsome reputation for nothing. He parries, blocks, shields against their spells, and then he calls out. 

"Newt, fight with me."

"No," Newt immediately responds, stepping back, because of course he wouldn't. He's only gone along with Grindelwald because of the leverage the other man had on him but—

His cuff _burns_.

Newt cries out, almost collapsing at the scalding heat of the leather. He clasps his hand over it, trying to yank it off, but it doesn't respond to his magic. It doesn't move despite his attempts.

"Newt!" Tina cries out in horror, and Newt's eyes squeeze shut at the pain.

 _He was so dumb_ , Newt thinks, tears coming out of his eyes now at the fire racing up his veins. The wound from Credence's Obscurial form only further aggravates the fire, makes it a thousand times worse. He falls to his knees, a soundless scream escaping him, and digs his fingers uselessly into his cuff. Of course Grindelwald wouldn't be naive enough to depend on Newt's word. Of course Grindelwald wouldn't just place Portkey and tracking spells over his wristband.

It was one of the most archaic, barbaric ways of _'acceptance'_ from pureblood families when they had Muggleborn soulmates. They brought them into their family with specially-spelled cuffs, ones that guaranteed loyalty and obedience, subservience to their betters. His grandparents had always held it over Newt's father that they didn't do the same, that Will should be grateful because they were past such practices.

It is with gutting horror that Newt feels his wand arm raise without his permission.

"Move!"

Before the bright red spell can hit, there's a crack of Apparition and a figure throws itself into its path. The spell fizzles out before it can even hit, bursting into tiny, harmless red sparks reminiscent of fireworks and Newt's lips part, his breath catching in stunned awe.

He's only seen something like that once before—it's fascinating, marvelous, a self-defense mechanism of your own soul to prevent harming its mate, and it only happens with—

 _Soulmates_.

Percival Graves stands before him, eyes dark and shadowed, body gaunt and skeletal, Pickett on his shoulder, and Newt's soul _sings_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late!!! i had to rewatch FB again to get the canon right, bcos i care about that shit 😂 a break from single-POV chapters with a multi-POV one yay.

**Author's Note:**

> testing out the gramander fandom and what reception this fic will get :-P
> 
> i am on [tumblr!](senju-sandwich.tumblr.com)


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